THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


CHIPS    FROM    A 
BUSY  WORKSHOP 

LORIN  WEBSTER 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE    GORHAM    PRESS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


CHIPS    FROM   A 
BUSY  WORKSHOP 

LORIN  WEBSTER 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE    GORHAM    PRESS 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,    y  LOEIN  WEBSTER 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


The  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


?s 


TO 

MY   BELOVED  WIFE 

TO  WHOSE  INSPIRATION  AND  HELP  WHATEVER  SMALL 
MEASURE  OF  SUCCESS  I  HAVE  ACHIEVED  IN  HEW 
ING    AND    FASHIONING     JUVENILE    TIMBER 
INTO  THE    FRAMEWORK    OF   MANHOOD 
HAS  BEEN  DUE,  THESE  CHIPS  WHICH 
HAVE  FALLEN  FROM  MY  TOOLS 
WHILE     AT    WORK,     ARE 
AFFECTIONATELY 
D  E  D I  GATE  D 


10514 


PS 


CONTENTS 


SONGS  OF  FREEDOM 

A  League  of  Nations, .      .  9 

Bid  the  Boys  a  Welcome  10 

O  Mother  Dear,  America  12 

America  to  England    .  i$ 

Russia's  Resurrection        .  17 

The  Origin  of  War       .      .  18 

A  War  Lament 19 

Bynging  to  the  Rhine 20 

SONGS  OF  LOYALTY 

New  Hampshire 23 

Sons  of  Trinity 25 

Holderness  School  Song 27 

Holderness  Alumni  Song 29 

Wachusett  Song 30 

Wachusett 31 

Upon  Gibraltar's  Shores 32 

A  Roosevelt  Campaign  Song 33 

SACRED  SONGS 

A  Prayer 37 

A  Litany  to  the  Holy  Spirit 38 

Our  Fathers'  God 39 

A  Marriage  Prayer 40 

True  Religion 41 

All  Saints 43 

The  Virgin's  Lullaby 45 

Gethsemane 46 

The  Inner  Life 47 

THE  WEB  OF  LIFE 

The  Web  of  Life 51 

Life 52 

Imperishable 53 

When  I  am  Dead 55 

November 56 

The  Heart's  Secret  Chamber 57 

3 


Contents 

PAGE 

Only  a  Dream 58 

Ode  to  the  Wind 60 

Friendship 62 

True  Economy 63 

LOVE  LYRICS 

ToJ.  J.  W.       . 67 

Worthless  Resolutions 68 

Nothing  to  Me 69 

I  am  a  King 70 

My  Queen 70 

Thy  Knight 71 

Amor  Omnia  Vincit 72 

"Yes"  or  "No" 73 

Undying  Love 74 

To  Friends 75 

True  Love 77 

The  Maid  of  Penacook 79 

A  Song  without  Words 81 

To  Bertha 82 

A  Phantasy 82 

Thy  Sweet  Presence .  86 

It  Was  a  Dream 87 

To  My  Wifie 88 

The  Man  a  Girl  Should  Choose 89 

To  My  Valentine 89 

A  Valentine 90 

A  Valentine 91 

Just  That  I've  Had  You 92 

Love  and  Friendship 93 

Thy  Lips 94 

My  Lady  Fair 95 

Love  Eternal 96 

SONGS  OF  CHILDHOOD 

A  Christmas  Eve  Lullaby 99 

Lullaby 100 

Baby's  Voice 101 

A  Child 102 

An  Ode  to  Motherhood .  104 


Contents 


IN  REMEMBRANCE  PAGE 

To  Miss  Gainforth 109 

Lady  Carp no 

To  C.  E.  P. 112 

An  Appreciation 113 

To  a  Friend 114 

On  a  Wedding  Anniversary 115 

Another  Milestone 116 

Beulah 117 

Lighter  Burdens,  or  Stronger  Backs? 118 

The  Everlasting  Hills 119 

Life 120 

Your  Life  and  Mine 121 

To  M.  B.  C 122 

To  Cousin  Ruth 124 

To  B.  F. 125 

On  Receiving  a  Calendar  from  B.  F 125 

To  G.  T.  B 126 

To  C.  M.  J 127 

Gladness  and  Sadness 128 

Greeting  to  Grandma 129 

F.  E.  Stanley 130 

IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 

The  New  Spelling 137 

The  Evolution  of  Transportation 138 

The  Thief 139 

The  Way  to  Wareham 140 

Pardonable  Unfaithfulness 141 

Philopena 142 

To  Miss  L.  S.  B 143 

Philopena 144 

The  Flying  Machine 145 

Height,  Breadth,  or  Length 146 

Never  Mind  the  Pony 147 

Mellen's  Food 150 

Snyder-Cure  Ham 151 

To  B.  &  S.  Co 152 

The  Evolution  of  Man's  Clothes 153 

The  Stanley  Steamer 155 

S 


Contents 

PAGE 

To  Dorcas 155 

A  Table  for  Crabbers 156 

To  the  Christmas  Shopper 157 

Aristocracy 158 

The  Thralldom  of  Style 159 

W.  J.  Burns .      .  160 

A  Sad  Mix-up 161 

Synonyms 162 

Mrs.  Chawmer 163 

A  Problem  in  Arithmetic 164 

To  a  Suffragist 165 

The  Judge's  Recall 166 

The  Panama  Canal 168 

Which  is  Which? 168 

An  Acrostic 169 

I'm  a  Word  of  Five  Syllables 170 

Propinquity 171 

A  Challenge 172 

Non  Bis 172 

Our  Maudie 173 

A  Change 174 

The  Christmas  Stocking 174 

When  a  Girl  is  a  Guest 175 

An  Exchange  of  Photographs 176 

To  My  Daughter 176 

A  Chessnut 177 

Thoughts  Cannot  be  Blotted 179 

The  Flea  and  the  Fly 180 

O  Fiddle  Dee  Dee 181 

Borrowed  Lenses 181 

A  Barrow 183 

The  Skater 184 

Excelsion  or  Soar  . 185 

Doing 186 

I'm  a  Bore 187 

Smoking  or  Fuming,  Which? 188 

A  Gift 188 

A  Railroad  Thought 189 

Apples  in  History 190 

Ships  that  Pass  in  the  Night 191 

6 


SONGS  OF  FREEDOM 


A  LEAGUE  OF  NATIONS 

O  WELCOME  a  league  of  the  nations, 
The  only  sure  warrant  of  peace, 

The  crown  of  the  world's  expectations, 
From  war's  tribulations  release. 

It  proclaims  that  all  humans  are  brothers ; 

That  God  is  the  Father  of  all; 
That  ours  are  the  interests  of  others; 

That  others  will  hark  to  our  call. 

The  body,  though  one,  hath  its  members, 
Each  serving  itself  and  the  whole; 

And  Junes  cannot  say  to  Decembers: 
"Men  need  not  the  heat  of  the  coal." 

Even  so  with  the  body  of  nations; 

Each  hath  its  relations  to  all; 
And  all  must  fulfill  these  relations, 

Or  civilization  will  fall. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


BID  THE  BOYS  A  WELCOME 

FROM  the  distant  Hunland, 

Far  across  the  sea, 
Come  our  boys  triumphant, 

Flushed  with  victory. 
In  the  cause  of  Freedom 

They  went  forth  to  fight, 
Leaving  home  and  country, 

Battling  for  the  right. 

Refrain — 

Bid  the  boys  a  welcome! 

Sing  a  glad   refrain, 
As  they  march  in  triumph 

To  their  homes  again. 

Long  they've  lain  in  trenches 

Filled  with  rain  or  snow, 
Stunned  by  bursting  shrapnel, 

Stricken  by  the  foe. 
When  the  word  was  given, 

O'er  the  top  they  went, 
Heeding  not  the  missiles 

By  the  Bodies  sent. 

Refrain 
IO 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


Through  the  wiry  network 

Dashed  the  British  tanks! 
Driving  all  before  them, 

Came  the  French  and  Yanks! 
Aeroplanes  above  them 

Pointed  out  the  way; 
Frightful  was  the  carnage; 

Bloody  was  the  fray. 

Refrain 

Some  of  those  who  left  us 

We  shall  never  see; 
Sleep  they  now  in  Flanders, 

Or  in  Picardy. 
Peace  be  to  their  ashes! 

Sweet  shall  be  their  rest; 
By  our  Loving  Father 

Shall  their  souls  be  blest. 

Final  refrain — 

Christ  has  bid  them  welcome 
To  their  home  on  high, 

To  the  realms  of  glory, 
Nevermore  to  die. 


II 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


O  MOTHER  DEAR,  AMERICA 

O  MOTHER  dear,  America, 

The  home  of  liberty, 
To  thee  we  raise  a  joyful  song, 

The  slogan  of  the  free; 
Our  fathers  fought  and  bled  and  died 

To  stablish  here  their  rights, 
And  God  upon  their  shoulders  struck 

The  accolade  of  knights. 

And  when  again  they  drew  their  swords, 

To  free  the  shackled  slave, 
They  proved  that  courage  had  not  waned- 

That  sons,  as  sires,  wrere  brave. 
Yes,  brothers  fought  with  brothers, 

Both  for  the  rights  they  craved, 
But  in  God's  hands  decision  lay, 

And  He  the  Union  saved. 

Upon  our  land  God's  blessing  came; 

His  gifts  our  homes  adorn; 
The  earth  hath  yielded  her  increase, 

Our  fields  stand  thick  with  corn; 
For  more  than  two  score  years  and  ten 

The  fruits  of  Peace  we've  known, 
Save  when,  at  Cuba's  need,  we  dashed 

A  tyrant  from  her  throne. 

12 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


And  now  once  more  with  war's  alarms 

All  people's  hearts  are  thrilled, 
For  Germany's  o'erweening  pride 

The  cup  of  woe  hath  filled. 
For  forty  years  she  hath  prepared 

To  play  her  warlike  game; 
Because  of  her  mad,  selfish  course, 

The  whole  world  is  aflame. 

Never  with  purer  motive  hath 

A  nation  gone  to  war, 
Than  hath  inspired  our  Government 

To  validate  the  law — 
The  law  called  international, 

Which  regulates  the  acts, 
When  nation  deals  with  nation,  in 

Accordance  with  the  facts. 

We've  sent  our  boys  across  the  seas 

To  vindicate  the  right, 
To  teach  the  vandal  Germans  that 

The  world's  not  ruled  by  might. 
They'll  rescue  valiant  Belgium,  though 

They  die  on  Flanders  field; 
Unto  the  Kaiser's  dominance 

This  country  will  not  yield. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


We're  spending  blood  and  treasured  gold 

To  battle  for  the  right, 
To  free  the  whole  world  from  the  curse 

Of  military  blight. 
We'll  form  a  league  of  nations,  when 

This  bloody  war  is  o'er — 
One  flag  for  all,  one  sacred  bond, 

To  last  for  evermore. 

A  holy,  consecrated  zeal 

Doth  now  possess  our  soul; 
We  ask  no  compensation,  but 

We  seek  one  single  goal. 
That  goal  is  true  self-government 

For  every  land  on  earth, 
From  out  the  womb  of  Liberty 

To  bring  her  sons  to  birth. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


AMERICA  TO  ENGLAND 

O  MOTHER,  dear  Mother,  the  land  of  our  birth, 
We  are  proud  of  our  lineage,  thou  queen  of  the 

earth ! 
We  have  strayed  from  thy  roof,  we  have  built  a 

new  home, 
But  we  are  thy  children,  wherever  we  roam. 

Though  weaned  from  thy  breast,  we  are  bone  of  thy 

bone; 

Though  not  of  thy  Empire,  allegiance  we  own — 
Allegiance  of  kinship,  those  bonds  of  the  soul 
Which  bind  Anglo-Saxons  to  strive  for  one  goal. 

That  goal  is  true  freedom  for  peoples  and  nations 
To  govern  themselves — yes,  without  intimations 
That  some  other  country  holds  sovereignty, 
For  "consent  of  the  governed"  's  the  rule  of  the 
free. 

When  this  rule  was  broken  and  Belgium  invaded — 
As  often  before  the  oppressed  thou  has  aided — 
Thou  girdedst  thy  sword  and  whettedst  thy  spear, 
Without  hesitation  or  guerdon  or  fear. 

With  full  knightly  honor  thou  'st  entered  the  fight, 
To  put  down  the  doctrine  that  might  shall  make 

right ; 

To  quell  the  proud  spirit  of  German  autocracy, 
And  make  the  world  safe  for  our  common  democ 
racy. 

15 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


We've  entered  it  too,  and  henceforth  to  the  end, 
Americans,  British  and  French  shall  defend 
The  rights  of  the  people,  held  dearer  than  life, 
Despite  what  it  costs,  and  though  bitter  the  strife. 

Thus  far  in  the  conflict  our  help  has  been  wanting, 
But  without  any  spirit  of  boasting  or  vaunting, 
When  our  boys  have  been  trained  and  "gone  over 

the  top" 
The  Boches  will  find  we  are  hard  men  to  stop. 

At  Ypres  and  Vimy  and  Cambrai  they  have  learned 
How    the    Hindenburg    line    can    be    broken     and 

turned ; 
Before  sheathing  the  sword,  by  the  bones  of  old 

Merlin, 
We  will  crumple  their  legions  and  drive  them  to 

Berlin. 

And  then  shall  come  forth  from  the  womb  of  Crea 
tion 

A  league  of  all  nations,  a  World  Federation, 
Whose  blood  boughten  banner  the  emblem  shall  be, 
That  right  shall  prevail,  that  the  brave  shall  be 
free. 


16 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


RUSSIA'S  RESURRECTION 

As  breaks  the  ice  on  frozen  lakes  and  streams, 

When  lifted  by  the  force  of  melting  snow 

That  rushes  to  the  valleys  from  the  hills 

And  lofty  mountains  tow'ring  far  above — 

As  bursts  the  sweet  arbutus  into  bloom 

Beneath  its  ermine  mantle,  when  the  sun 

Hath  quickened  into  life  its  dormant  powers 

And  warmed  its  rootlets  with  his  radiant  beams — 

As  when  Dame  Nature  rises  from  her  couch, 

At  bidding  of  the  tumult  in  her  veins, 

And  dons  her  robe  of  velvet  bud  and  leaf 

And  stalks  majestically  o'er  the  earth — 

Yea,  e'en  as  Christ  Himself  on  Easter  morn 

Threw  off  the  weight  that  crushed  man's  highest 

hopes 

And  snapped  the  icy  hands  of  cruel  Death 
And  calmly  rose  triumphant  o'er  the  grave — 
So  hath  the  far-flung,  ancient,  Slavic  realm 
Cast  off  the  shackles  of  autocracy 
And  burst  the  galling  chains  which  Russia's  Czars 
Have  riveted  for  centuries  on  her  feet. 
Siberia's  frozen  plains  have  felt  the  glow 
Of  democratic  fires.     The  seething  flood 
Of  popular  control  hath  burst  its  bonds 
And  forced  the  abdication  of  the  Czar. 
This  resurrection  of  the  people's  right 

17 


Chips  From  a  Busy   Workshop 


To  rule  themselves  lays  bare  its  empty  tomb, 
And  hath  enfranchised  Pole  and  Finn  and  Jew 
And  struck  the  fetters  from  each  Russian  serf. 
All  hail  to  Freedom's  brightly  glowing  torch! 
Point  out  to  us  anew,  midst  shoal  and  reef, 
The  perils  of  our  course  and  guide  us  safe 
Into  the  port  of  happiness  and  peace! 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  WAR 

THE  doctors  tell  us,  now-a-days, 
That  all  disease  is  spread  by  germs ; 
So  this  accounts  for  all  the  ways 
They  take  to  bring  disease  to  terms. 

This  theory  is  likewise  true 
Concerning  the  disease  of  war, — 
The  dread  disease  that's  struck  us  too, 
The  nations'  curse  which  all  abhor. 

The  Germans  first  produced  the  germ 
Which  hath  inoculated  all — 
Earth's  deadliest  bug,  and  vilest  worm- 
They  hatched  it  from  a  cannon  ball. 


18 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


A  WAR  LAMENT 

MY  Tuesdays  and  Fridays  are  meatless, 
And  all  of  my  breakfasts  are  wheatless; 
My  furnace  and  stove,  they  are  heatless, 

Because  of  the  needs  of  the  war. 
My  coffee  and  tea  are  now  sweetless, 
And  soon  will  my  mattress  be  sheetless, 
My  trousers  already  are  seatless — 

The  biggest  hole  you  ever  saw. 

But 

American  armies  are  beatless, 

Our  Allies  have  proven  defeatless, 

While  Germany's  Xmas  was  greetless, 

Because  of  her  terrible  sin. 
Our  words  and  our  acts  are  deceitless, 
Our  treaties  shall  never  be  treatless, 
The  Kaiser's  fine  shoes  shall  be  feetless, 

For  to  fight  we're  about  to  begin. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


BYNGING  TO  THE  RHINE 
A  Parody 

A  SOLDIER  of  the  Allies  lay  a-dying  on  the  sod; 
There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing  and  he  seemed 

bereft  of  God ; 
But  a  comrade  knelt  beside  him,  as  his  life  blood 

ebbed  away, 
And  bent,  with  pitying  glance,  to  hear  whatever  he 

might  say. 

The  dying  soldier  faltered,  as  he  took  that  com 
rade's  hand, 

And  remarked:  "I  never  more  shall  see  my  own, 
my  native  land. 

Take  a  message  and  a  token  to  the  Boches  on  the 
line, 

And  tell  them  that  the  Tommies  are  a-Bynging  to 
the  Rhine. 

If  one  should  bid  you  mention  how  we're  going  to 

make  such  gains, 
Just  tell  him  Haig's  a-coming  with  his  tanks  and 

aeroplanes ; 
That  the  Yanks  and  French  poilus  will  soon  be 

sticking  Hunnish  swine, 
For  old  General  Byng  is  leading  and  we're  Bynging 

to  the  Rhine." 

20 


SONGS  OF  LOYALTY 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE 

ALL  hail,  ye  people  of  the  Granite  State, 

In  acres  small,  in  manhood's  power  great! 

All  hail!  ye  sturdy  sons  of  noble  sires! 

Ye  daughters  fair,  whose  hearthstones  glow  with 

fires 

Of  patriotic  love !     Upon  the  shrine 
Of  Fatherland  no  gift  excelleth  thine. 
All  hail!  brave  hearts,  and  let  the  welkin  ring! 
Dear  old  New  Hampshire's  paeans  let  us  sing! 

Some  fain  would  praise  the  land  of  rolling  plain, 
Shut  out  from  glimpses  of  the  vasty  main; 
We  love  the  beetling  cliffs  which  daily  seek 
The  lightning's  flash  upon  each  craggy  peak. 
Let  others  boast  their  shocks  of  golden  corn, 
Which  yield  them  wealth  and  all  their  fields  adorn; 
Our  products  last  beyond  earth's  widest  ken, — 
The  Old  Stone  Face  proclaims  that  we  raise  men. 

These  men  have  been  among  the  Nation's  great, 
Their  words  have  scorned,   their  deeds  have  con 
quered  fate. 

Whene'er  from  tyranny  their  swords  could  shield, 
They've  always  been  the  first  to  take  the  field. 
They've  stood  for  equal  rights  'twixt  man  and  man, 
They  are  of  those  who  do  because  they  can. 
We  find  their  names  upon  the  scroll  of  fame, 
A  place  they've  won  with  all  the  world's  acclaim. 

23 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


Our  fathers'  God,  to  Thee  we  owe  our  birth 
In  this  fair  land,  most  beautiful  of  earth. 
To  God  our  joyful  songs,  then,  let  us  sing; 
To   Him  a  grateful  tribute  let  us  bring. 
Long  live   New   Hampshire's   great   and    glorious 

name! 

Secure  her  place,  untouched  by  taint  of  shame. 
Long  live  the  honor  of  the  Granite  State, 
Though  small  in  size,  renowned  among  the  great! 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


SONS  OF  TRINITY 

SONS  of  Trinity,  give  a  rouse 

For  your  Alma  Mater  dear! 

For  the  lessons  she  hath  taught  us 

And  the  good  which  she  hath  wrought  us 

Give  a  rouse,  and  a  shout,  and  a  cheer! 

Chorus — 

We're  the  sons  of  old  Trinity, 

The  loyal  sons  of  Trinity, 

And  though  our  mother  is  but  small, 

We  love  her  more  than  all. 

She  guides  our  hands,  our  hearts,  our  brains ; 

Naught  doth  her  love  deter, 

And  our  devotion  shall  be  to  her 

So  long  as  life  remains. 

"For  the  Nation  and  the  Church," 
This  shall  be  our  charge  for  aye! 
What  could  be  a  prouder  boast 
Than  for  both  to  do  the  most — 
Yes,  to  live,  and  to  love,  and  to  pray? 

Chorus 

Brothers,  let  us  pledge  our  love 
To  the  college  of  our  choice! 
Let  the  truth  which  she  imparts 
Be  engraven  on  our  hearts! 
Be  we  true,  each  to  each,  and  rejoice ! 

Chorus 
25 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


O  Mother  dear,  old  Trinity! 
To  thee  a  joyful  song  we'll  sing, 
A  rousing  song,  a  song  of  cheer, 
Come  now,  and  let  the  welkin  ring! 
Give  a  rouse,  and  a  shout  that  we'll  hear ! 

Chorus 


26 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


HOLDERNESS  SCHOOL  SONG 

O  MOTHER  dear,  old  Holderness, 
We  greet  thee  with  a  cheer! 
For  thou  hast  e'er  encircled  us 
Within  thine  arms  most  dear. 
Upon  thy  faithful,  loving  breast, 
We  lay  our  burdens  down, 
And  on  thy  calm,  maternal  face, 
We  never  find  a  frown. 

Chorus — 

O  Mother  dear,  old  Holderness, 
To  thee  we  raise  a  joyful  song; 
Thy  love  shall  e'er  embolden  us 
To  be  brave  men  and  strong. 

Beneath  thy  peaceful,  classic  shades, 

Amid  Dame  Nature's  charms, 

We  tread  the  paths  of  ancient  lore, 

Secure  from  all  alarms. 

We  bring  our  joys  and  griefs  to  thee, 

Assured  of  thy  fond  love; 

Of  thee  we  learn  the  priceless  truths 

That  win  the  life  above. 

Chorus 
27 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


Upon  thy  sod,  in  youthful  sports, 

We  learn  the  game  of  life, — 

To  play  it  fair,  e'en  though  defeat 

Should  chance  to  crown  the  strife. 

We  never  whimper,  if  we're  beat, 

We're  made  of  sterner  stuff; 

For  though  we'd  choose  life's  smoothest  course, 

We're  ready  for  the  rough. 

Chorus 

And  when  our  journey  shall  be  o'er, 

Life's  fitful  conflict  past, 

And  we  have  reached  its  farthest  bourne, 

Found  faithful  to  the  last, 

It  boots  not  when  that  hour  shall  come, — 

Be  it  or  near,  or  far, — 

We'll  trust  the  Pilot  thou  hast  shipped, 

When  we  shall  cross  the  bar. 

Chorus 


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HOLDERNESS  ALUMNI   SONG 

ALL  hail,  all  hail,  old  Holderness! 

With  loving  hearts  we  meet  thee; 

Till  our  parting  breath  leaves  us  chill  in  death, 

With  a  loyal  song  we'll  greet  thee. 

We  come  from  our  homes,  leaving  babes  and  wife, 

To  visit  the  dear  old  Mother, 

From  the  din  and  the  strife  of  a  busy  life 

For  a  handshake  with  one  another. 

We  remember  the  joys  of  our  boyhood  past; 
We  remember  the  pranks  and  the  "soaking"  ; 
But  the  colors  are  fast  which  we  nail  to  the  mast, 
While  the  blessing  of  Heaven  invoking. 

Let  us  never  forget  the  traditions  of  old; 

Let  us  cherish  the  Mother's  training ; 

For  more  precious  than  gold  are  the  truths  that  she 

told, 
At  the  goal  of  true  manliness  aiming. 

Let  us  go  forth  to  live,  let  us  go  forth  to  die, 
Always  loving  the  dear  old  Mother; 
With  the  Father's  eye  looking  down  from  the  sky, 
Let  us  be  unto  each  a  brother. 

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WACHUSETT  SONG 

COME,  my  hearties,  give  a  rouse, 
For  the  Camp  we  love  so  well, 
For  the  woodcraft  she  hath  taught  us 
And  the  good  times  she  hath  brought  us, 
Give  a  rouse,  and  a  shout  and  a  yell. 

Chorus — 

We're  the  braves  of  Camp  Wachusett; 

Be  sure  you  don't  confuse  it; 

Our  camping  place  is  Lake  Asquam, 

Our  welcome  there  is  warm. 

She  guides  our  hands,  our  hearts,  our  brains, 

Strong  health  doth  she  confer, 

And  our  devotion  shall  be  to  her 

So  long  as  life  remains. 

C-a-m-p  W-a-c-h-u-s-e-t-t 

This  is  how  we  spell  the  name 

And  our  cheeks  would  burn  with  shame 

Should  we  not,  with  true  heart,  do  our  part. 

Chorus 

Brothers,  let  us  pledge  our  love 
To  our  chief  and  to  each  brave; 
Let  the  welkin  ring  with  praises 
Of  Wachusett's  woodland  mazes; 
Be  we  true,  each  to  each,  to  the  grave. 

Chorus 
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WACHUSETT 

ON  the  shores  of  Little  Asquam, 

'Neath  the  brow  of  Shepard  Hill, 
There's  a  spot,  as  if  created 

By  our  Lord's  almighty  will. 
Time  has  changed  the  stately  forests 

'Round  this  little  lake  so  grand, 
Yet  this  spot  retains  its  beauty 

Fashioned  only  by  His  hand. 

Chief  Wachusett,  long  remembered, 

With  his  warriors  so  bold 
Hunted  o'er  these  lakes  and  forests, 

That's  the  legend  we've  been  told. 
But  today  the  silent  forest 

O'er  a  region  deep  and  vast 
Opens  up  its  secret  mazes, 

For  the  red  man's  day  is  passed. 

Glory  be  to  Old  Wachusett 

And  the  camp  which  bears  his  name. 
May  our  camp-mates  in  Wachusett 

Sometime  stand  in  Halls  of  Fame. 
When  old  age  shall  come  upon  them 

And  a  backward  look  they  take, 
Let  them  think  of  Camp  Wachusett 

On  the  Little  Asquam  Lake. 

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UPON  GIBRALTAR'S  SHORES 

As  Eden  was  the  type  of  Paradise, 

And  Isaac's  gift  of  Jesus'  sacrifice; 

As  David's  home,  Jerusalem  of  old, 

Prefigured  that  with  streets  of  shining  gold, 

E'en  so  Gibraltar,  Erie's  rock-bound  isle, 

On  which  God's  blessing  bides  and  angels  smile, 

A  haven  where  so  many  have  found  rest, 

When  worn  by  toil,  or  when  by  care  opprest, 

Foreshadowing  heaven,  home  of  God's  elect, 

That  blissful  home  which  eager  hearts  expect, — 

And  if  the  charm  of  heaven  this  shall  be, 

To  praise  our  God  throughout  eternity, 

To  know  our  Saviour,  e'en  as  we  are  known, 

To  worship  Him  around  the  great  white  throne, 

To  feel  temptation's  power  nevermore, 

From  height  to  height  in  friendship's  love  to  soar, 

To  raise  with  angels  and  with  men  a  song, 

Which  shall  inspire  and  move  the  heavenly  throng — 

If  this  it  be,  we've  had  a  foretaste  here 

Upon  Gibraltar's  shores,  with  friends  so  dear. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


A  ROOSEVELT  CAMPAIGN  SONG 

WHEN,  two  score  years  and  ten  ago, 

Our  land  was  scourged  with  war, 
God  raised  a  man  from  humble  life, 

Who  with  keen  vision  saw. 
So  now  in  time  of  Boss  and  Trust, 

In  well-nigh  greater  need, 
God  hath  raised  up  a  champion 

To  fight  the  hosts  of  greed. 

Refrain — 

O  valiant  son  of  Grand  Old  Abe, 
Who  stand'st  for  rights  of  man  and  babe, 
Strike  off  the  chains  from  Labor's  hand 
And  give  true  freedom  to  our  land. 

As  Lincoln  stood  for  equal  rights 

For  blacks  and  whites  and  all, 
And  viewed  with  eyes  undimmed  by  fear 

The  conflict's  darkling  pall, 
So  "Teddy"  wills  for  all  alike 

An  entrance  through  the  door 
Of  Equal  Opportunity 

For  all — the  rich  and  poor. 

Refrain 
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Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


And  as  our  martyred  Abraham 

Preserved  the  Government, 
Not  for  the  few — the  rich,  the  great, 

To  whom  God's  gifts  are  lent, — 
But  of  the  whole,  and  by  the  whole, 

And  for  the  whole — for  all — 
So  by  this  blood-bought  principle 

Our  "Teddy"  '11  stand  or  fall. 

Final  Refrain — 

Not  for  the  Part,  but  for  the  Whole! 
Be  this  the  slogan  in  our  fight. 
Let  him  who  wins  the  distant  goal 
Contend  for  Justice  and  the  Right ! 


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SACRED  SONGS 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


A  PRAYER 

O  MY  heavenly  Father,  hear  me 

For  the  son  vouchsafed  to  me ; 
Thine  he  is,  for  Thou  hast  made  him, 

Only  mine  in  trust  from  Thee. 
In  the  hour  of  strong  temptation, 

Let  his  feet  go  not  astray ; 
And  when  Satan's  wiles  assail  him, 

Keep  him  in  the  narrow  way. 

When  he  hungers  on  his  journey, 

Feed  him  with  the  bread  of  life; 
Smite  the  rock  of  living  waters, 

When  he  thirsts  in  weary  strife. 
If  the  way  be  long  and  dreary, 

If  its  pitfalls  be  unknown, 
Guard  him,  guide  him,  keep  him,  save  him, 

With  the  blest  around  Thy  throne. 

May  he  come  to  love  Thee,  Father, 

Even  more  than  he  loves  me; 
May  he  serve  with  knightly  service 

All  who  know  adversity. 
Taking  Jesus  for  his  Pattern, 

Scorning  sin  and  base  renown, 
May  he  follow  in  His  footsteps, 

Earn  His  praise,  and  win  His  crown. 

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A  LITANY  TO  THE  HOLY  SPIRIT 

WHEN  the  form  my  arms  enclose 
In  God's  acre  lies; 
When  its  spirit  upward  goes, 
Soaring  to  the  skies; 
When  no  human  friendship  knows 
How  to  comfort  sorrow's  throes, 
Holy  Spirit,   comfort  me! 

When  these  lips  no  longer  speak 
Messages  of  love, 
When  in  Paradise  they  seek 
Fellowship  above; 
When  my  Dothie,  gentle,  meek, 
Leaves  me  desolate  and  weak, 
Holy  Spirit,  strengthen  me. 

When  these  hands  so  fondly  pressed 
To  my  throbbing  heart, 
Shall  be  folded  on  a  breast 
Whence  no  pulses  start ; 
When  my  darling's  with  the  blest, 
But  I'm  left  in  sore  unrest, 
Holy  Spirit,  quiet  me! 

When  beside  her  grave  I  must 
Hear  the  gravel  fall — 
"Earth  to  earth,  dust  to  dust" 
Rattling  on  her  pall — 
When  by  this  last,  deepest  thrust 
I'm  bereft  of  all  my  trust, 
Holy  Spirit,  'lighten  me. 

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OUR  FATHERS'  GOD 

OUR  fathers'  God,  to  Thee  we  lift  our  hearts 
In  gratitude  for  all  Thy  grace  imparts. 
We  praise  and  bless  Thee  for  Thy  love  bestowed 
Upon  this  nation  and  our  blest  abode. 

Thy  hand  thus  far  hath  steered  our  Ship  of  State 
O'er  seas  tempestuous  and  through  billows  great, 
With  Thee  our  Pilot,  and  with  compass  true, 
Mid  storm  and  peril  we  shall  weather  through. 

May  Christ's  religion  be  our  beacon  light, 
To  guide  us  on  our  course  in  paths  of  right. 
Nor  winds,  nor  waves,  nor  violence  we  fear, 
If  Thou  our  fathers'  God,  and  ours,  art  near. 

And  when  we  reach  the  port  of  righteousness, 
A  harbor  safe  for  all  who  Thee  confess, 
Our  thankful  hearts  again  we'll  lift  to  Thee, 
Our  God  through  time  and  through  eternity. 


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A  MARRIAGE  PRAYER 

SAVIOUR  dear,  who  wast  a  Guest 
At  a  marriage-feast, 
Let  our  wedding  day  be  blest; 
Be  our  love  increased. 

In  our  journey  to  life's  end, 
Which  begins  to-day, 
Be  Thou  near  us  to  befriend; 
Be  Thyself  the  Way. 

Whether  skies  are  clear  and  bright, 
Whether  storms  bring  ruth, 
Should  the  mists  obscure  our  sight, 
Be  to  us  the  Truth. 

When  we  come  to  life's  far  bourne, 
Spent  with  toil  and  strife, 
Let  us  then  to  Thee  return ; 
Be  to  us  the  Life. 

In  God's  Paradise  above 
May  we  still  be  one; 
And  in  us,  redeemed  by  Love, 
Let  Thy  will  be  done. 

Yea,  dear  Lord,  be  Thou  our  Way, 
Be  Thou  our  Truth,  our  Life, 
May  we  be  each  the  other's  stay, 
True  husband  and  true  wife. 

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TRUE  RELIGION 

IN  what  doth  true  religion  lie 
Pure,  undefiled,  sincere? 
Doth  it  consist  in  saying  prayers, 
In  making  Scripture  clear? 

Or  doth  it  mean  that  one  must  have 
A  faith  so  blind,  forsooth, 
That  what  seems  unmixed  foolishness 
Must  be  acknowledged  truth? 

Or,  once  again,  must  every  man 
Who  wears  Religion's  dress 
Bow  down  before  a  Priest  or  Pope 
And  all  his  sins  confess? 

Doth  it  consist  in  outward  form, 
Liturgical  or  not? 
Or  in  attendance  at  God's  House 
Wherein  His  grace  is  sought? 

Not  so  read  I  the  Saviour's  words, 
Or  find  it  in  His  life. 
But,  rather,  love  to  God  and  man ; 
'Gainst  sin  eternal  strife. 

A  helping  hand  held  out  to  save 
A  sinner  in  distress; 
Kind  acts  of  mercy  to  the  poor, — 
These  will  the  dear  Lord  bless. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


A  pension  to  the  fatherless, 

A  cup  of  water  given, 

The  bearing  of  another's  woes, — 

This  gains  Religion's  heaven. 


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ALL   SAINTS 

WHAT  is  a  saint,  and  who  the  man 
Or  woman  rightly  called  a  saint? 

Is't  he  or  she  who  justly  can 

Be  thought  to  live  without  sin's  taint? 

How  was't  in  Apostolic  days? 

Saint  Peter  thrice  his  Lord  denied, 
And  in  temptation's  fiercest  blaze — 

We  blush  to  say  it,  but — he  lied. 

And  e'en  that  glorious  saint  of  old, 

Who  fought  the  fight  and  kept  the  faith, 

The  great  Saint  Paul,  with  heart  of  gold, 
This  of  himself  he  truly  say'th: 

"Of  sinners  all  I  am  the  chief; 

The  Gospel  I'm  unfit  to  preach, 
Because,  in  sin  of  unbelief, 

Our  gracious  God  I  did  beseech 

To  pour  the  vials  of  His  wrath 
On  all  who  called  on  Jesus'  name. 

A  castaway!     I  fear  He  hath 

Condemned  me  to  a  death  of  shame." 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


No  man  a  sinless  life  can  lead; 

And  if  we  say  we  have  no  sin, 
We  cheat  ourselves;  the  truth,  indeed, 

Is  not  in  us, — hath  never  been. 

But  if  we  shall  our  sins  confess, 

Our  heavenly  Father  will  forgive, 

And  cleanse  us  from  unrighteousness, 
That  we  may  strive  Christ's  life  to  live. 

A  saint  is,  therefore,  one  who  strives, 
With  God's  good  grace,  and  all  his  might, 

To  make  his  own  and  others'  lives 
Like  unto  Christ's,  and  do  the  right. 

On  All  Saints'  Day  we  keep  the  feast 
Of  all  whose  work  on  earth  is  done, — 

Some  great,  some  small,  and  some  the  least 
Of  those  whose  victory  is  won. 

And  some  we've  known  and  loved  on  earth — 

Our  dearest  and  our  saintliest. 
God  grant  this  boon  of  priceless  worth, 

That  we  with  them  at  last  may  rest. 


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THE  VIRGIN'S  LULLABY 

SLEEP,  my  Baby,  mother's  Boy! 
When  Thou  cam'st  to  earth, 
Shepherds  sang  with  holy  joy, 
Angels  hailed  Thy  birth. 
Son  of  God,  though  born  to  me ! 
King  of  Kings  and  Lord  of  all, 
Hear,  O  hear  Thy  mother's  call. 

While  the  stars  still  silence  keep, 
Hushed  in  awesome  quest, 
Sleep,  my  blessed  Baby,  sleep 
On  Thy  mother's  breast, 
Thou  their  Maker  art,  and  mine! 
King  of  Kings  and  Lord  of  all, 
Hear,  O  hear  Thy  mother's  call. 

Thou  wast  born  mankind  to  save ; 

Thou  must  bear  the  cross; 

For  the  pardon  sinners  crave 

Thou  must  suffer  loss. 

Thou,  my  Child,  my  Saviour  art! 

Therefore,  hear  Thy  mother's  cry; 

Hear  my  solemn  lullaby. 


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GETHSEMANE 

THY  will,  not  mine,  O  God,  be  done! 
The  scene  is  dark  Gethsemane, 
The  actors  are  the  Holy  One, 
And  Death,  His  cruel  Enemy. 

The  words  ascend  to  God's  high  throne, 
The  prayer  is  heard,  the  Scripture  saith; 
But  yet  the  Sufferer,  alone, 
Alone !  is  left  to  conquer  Death. 

What  was  the  answer  to  that  prayer? 
For  Holy  Scripture  speaketh  truth — 
Not  freedom  from  His  cross  to  bear, 
But  ghostly  strength  to  bear,  in  sooth. 

E'en  thus,  dear  friend,  let  us  not  hope, 
In  answer  to  our  joined  prayers, 
For  more  than  ghostly  strength  to  cope 
With  earth's  deep  sorrows,  hardships,  cares. 

But  let  our  joint  petition  be, 
At  morn,  at  noon,  at  dewy  eve, 
"O  Holy  Spirit,  strengthen  me! 
On  Thee  I  trust,  to  Thee  I  cleave." 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


THE  INNER  LIFE 

AND  have  we,  then,  an  inner  life 
Which  lives  although  unseen, 
And  sometimes  makes  our  outward  life 
Appear  so  small  and  mean? 
And  is  it  this,  when  all  alone, 
Which  sometimes  seems  to  speak 
And  bids  us  struggle  for  the  right 
And  scorn  the  bad,  the  weak? 

And  is  this  what  we  call  the  soul? 

And  has  each  one  the  same? 

The  same,  but  some  so  scarred  and  warped 

It  scarce  deserves  the  name. 

Of  each  this  is  the  better  part 

Intended  to  uplift, 

To  raise  the  man  above  the  brute, 

Was  this  most  wondrous  gift. 

If  this,  then,  is  the  better  part, 

A  gift  from  God  in  heaven, 

Should  not  a  better  larger  share 

Of  watchful  care  be  given  ? 

Why  should  the  case  which  holds  the  soul 

This  human,  crumbling  shell, 

Be  taught  and  tended  so  much  more 

Than  for  the  soul  is  well? 

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How  strange  to  toil  unceasingly 
To  store  and  fill  the  head, 
And  still  allow  this  inner  life, 
The  soul's,  to  go  unfed ! 
How  strange  to  prize  the  jewel  box 
More  than  the  gem  therein! 
It  seems  to  me  that  such  a  one 
The  Giver's  scorn  must  win. 

When  He,  the  Giver  of  all  good, 
Shall  ask  us  in  that  day 
How  we  have  used  the  precious  gift 
We've  worse  than  thrown  away, 
'Twill  be  with  sad  and  downcast  look 
His  garment's  hem  we'll  touch, 
"Forgotten  was  the  jewel,  Lord, 
We  prized  the  case  so  much." 


THE  WEB  OF  LIFE 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


THE  WEB  OF  LIFE 

SAY  not  that  in  life's  flow  and  ebb 
Your  brother  needs  not  your  behoof; 

For  in  this  wondrous  human  web, 

Through  his  life's  warp  runs  your  life's  woof. 

And  if  it's  good,  or  if  it's  bad, 

Both  you  and  he  are  in  the  loom, 
For  fair  or  foul,  for  sad  or  glad; 

You  both  will  share  a  common  tomb. 

God  is  the  Weaver,  and  His  hand 

Controls  the  shuttle — slow  or  fast; 
Ours  but  to  take  a  helper's  stand 

And  shield  our  brothers  from  each  blast. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


LIFE 

WHAT  is  life?    A  bridge  that  ever 
Bears  God's  creatures  o'er  a  river, — 
One  a  taker,  one  a  giver. 

A  beginning  but  no  ending 

Hath  our  life.    'Tis  only  spending 

Time's  brief  span — keeping  or  lending. 

What  is  life?  A  mere  beginning! 
At  her  wheel  sits  Clotho,  spinning 
Golden  threads  well  worth  the  winning. 

Lachesis,  with  fitful  fever, 

Plies  the  threads — a  cunning  weaver — 

For  Atropos'  shears  to  sever. 

What  is  life?     O  cease  complaining! 
Fame  and  Fortune  e'er  disdaining, 
Let  us  cleave  to  Love  remaining! 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


IMPERISHABLE 

WHILE  digging  near  the  base  of  Lafayette, 
Which  lifts  its  towering  crest  to  open  skies 
By  day,  and  veils  its  head,  when  sun  is  set, 
With  fleecy  folds  of  cloud-spun  draperies, 

Some  workmen  found,  imbedded  in  the  clay, 
An  ancient  pine,  whose  giant  form  had  lain 
For  centuries  in  mouldering  decay — 
Swept  from  its  place  by  mighty  floods  of  rain. 

Now  when  they  struck  their  axes  to  its  heart, 
A  breath  of  wondrous  sweetness  floated  round, 
And,  rending  then  the  trunk  and  limbs  apart, 
A  store  of  honey  pure  and  fresh  they  found. 

No  one  can  say  what  time  that  tree  had  grown, 
Or  when  it  fell,  or  when  those  busy  bees, 
Of  long  ago,  from  flower  to  flower  had  flown, 
To  store  their  sweetness  in  the  hearts  of  trees; 

But  this  we  know — that  though  our  bodies  die, 
And  like  that  tree,  shall  crumble  in  decay, 
And  then,  as  dust,  from  age  to  age  shall  lie, 
Until,  or  near  or  far,  the  Judgment  Day, — 

The  sweetness  we  have  stored  within  our  lives 
By  deeds  of  love  to  one  another  shown, 
Shall,  when  that  dread  or  welcome  day  arrives, 
Be  found  by  God,  and  by  all  men  be  known. 

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E'en  thus  the  sweetness  of  young  Rees'  life, 
As  we  have  seen  it  stored  from  day  to  day, 
In  trivial  round  of  common  task,  and  strife 
With  things  ignoble,  shall  not  pass  away. 

His  unfeigned  scorn  of  what  was  mean  and  base, 
His  trust,  his  knightliness,  his  purity, 
No  change  of  time  or  scene  shall  e'er  erase 
From  mem'ry's  book.     They  have  security. 

And  when,  in  future  years,  our  boys  shall  scan 
The  records  of  the  past,  for  good  or  bad, 
The  log  will  show  no  name  of  boy  or  man 
To  overmatch  our  stainless  sailor  lad. 


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WHEN  I  AM  DEAD 

I  DO  not  want  a  gaping  crowd 

To  come  with  lamentations  loud, 

When  life  has  fled. 

Nor  would  I  have  my  words  or  ways 

Rehearsed,  perhaps,  with  tardy  praise, 

When  I  am  dead. 

I  do  not  want  strange,  curious  eyes 
To  scan  my  face  when  still  it  lies, 
In  silence  dread. 

Nor  do  I  want  them,  if  they  would, 
To  tell  my  deeds  were  ill  or  good 
When  I  am  dead. 

I  only  want  the  very  few 

Who  stood  through  good  and  evil  too — 

True  friendship's  test — 

Just  those  who  sought  to  find  the  good, 

And  then,  as  only  true  friends  could, 

Forgave  the  rest, 

Those  who  with  sympathetic  heart, 
Sought  hope  and  comfort  to  impart, 
When  there  was  life ; 
Not  keeping  all  the  tears  and  sighs 
Till  weary  worn-out  nature  dies 
And  ends  the  strife. 

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I'd  have  them  come — the  friendly  few — 
And  drop,  perhaps,  a  tear  or  two, 
By  kindness  led ; 

Not  many  tears  I'd  have  them  shed, 
Nor  do  I  want  much  sung  or  said, 
When  I  am  dead. 

To  have  them  each  come  in  alone, 
And  call  me  in  the  old  sweet  tone, 
Would  suit  me  best; 
And  then,  without  a  sob  or  moan, 
Go  softly  out  and  leave  alone 
The  dead  to  rest. 

Just  as  I've  lived,  and  as  I've  grown 
From  seed  in  youth  and  boyhood  sown, 
So  let  me  die; 

Just  one  who  lived  and  worked  and  died. 
Let  cross  of  stone  and  naught  beside 
Mark  where  I  lie. 


NOVEMBER 

'Tis  harvest  time!     Spring's  promise  is  fulfilled; 
The  bud  is  fruit;  we  reap  where  once  we  tilled. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


THE  HEART'S  SECRET  CHAMBER 

FAR  down  in  the  heart's  secret  chamber, 
Hidden  deep  from  the  gaze  of  all  mortals, 
Where  a  sentinel  true  guards  the  portals, 

Nor  gives  up  the  trust  in  his  care, 
Is  the  fount  of  each  purest  emotion, 
The  spring  of  all  holy  devotion, 
And  whence,  from  this  secret  chamber, 

Come  the  first  low  breathings  of  prayer. 

Deep  down  in  the  heart's  secret  chamber, 
For  victory  many  have  striven, 
When  storms  of  temptation  have  driven 

Their  tired  souls  nigh  to  despair. 
'Tis  there,  unseen  by  all  mortals, 
The  sentinel  lets  through  the  portals 
Of  this  the  heart's  secret  chamber 

The  breathings  of  soul-saving  prayer. 

The  inmate  of  this  secret  chamber 
Bids  kindly  emotions  grow  stronger, 
While  envy  and  hate  tarry  longer — 

Outside:  there's  no  room  for  them  there, 
Where  the  sentinel,  Conscience,  attending, 
Never  wearies,  but  ever  defending 
The  portals  of  this  secret  chamber, 

Emits  only  breathings  of  prayer. 

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ONLY  A  DREAM 

'TwAS  only  a  dream,  I  know, 

Like  fancies  that  come  and  go: 

Only  a  dream,  and  yet,  some  way, 

It  has  been  in  my  mind  all  through  the  day, 

And  I  cherish  it,  although  reason  say 

That  it  was  only  a  dream. 

'Twas  only  a  dream,  and  yet 

I  do  not,  I  cannot  forget. 

Only  a  dream,  and  still  its  power 

Is  with  me  in  every  waking  hour, 

Like  the  sweet  perfume  of  a  flower, 

E'en  though  'twas  but  a  dream. 

'Twas  only  a  dream,  but  then, 
It  comes  again  and  again, 
Only  a  foolish  dream,  'tis  true. 
So  unlike  all  I  ever  knew — 
Why,  no:  I  don't  mind  telling  you, 
'Twas  nothing  but  a  dream. 

I  saw  a  beautiful  face, 

A  form  of  quiet  grace, 

And  eyes — I'm  powerless  e'en  to  tell 

The  wondrous  magic  of  their  spell ; 

I  felt — but  then — ah,  me !  ah,  well ! 

'Twas  nothing  but  a  dream. 

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And  the  voice — but  here  I'm  powerless  too; 

I  cannot  impart  its  tones  to  you; 

'Tis  enough  that  they  were  low  and  sweet, 

Breathing  words  I'll  not  repeat, 

To  a  heart  with  gladness  quite  replete — 

But  then,  'twas  only  a  dream. 

Only  a  dream,  yet  of  my  heart 

It  has  become  a  living  part. 

How  strange  that  a  dream  should  linger  so! 

But  its  joys  I  could,  nor  would  forego, 

E'en  though  as  now,  I  shall  ever  know 

'Twas  nothing  but  a  dream. 


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ODE  TO  THE  WIND 

O  THOU  shapeless,  sightless  thing, 
Voice  of  God,  and  angels'  slave, 
Tell  me  where  thou'rt  journeying — 
Towards  a  birth,  or  o'er  some  grave? 

Bring'st  thou  tidings  good  or  ill? 
Means  thy  message  joy  or  woe? 
Com'st  thou  placid,  calm  and  still, 
Or  with  raging  cyclone's  throe? 

Softly  com'st  thou  through  the  trees, 
From  yon  mountain's  snowy  crest, 
Or  with  welcome,  cooling  breeze 
Fresh  from  Ocean's  heaving  breast? 

Only  last  night  thou  didst  roar, 
With  Titanic  fury  fraught, 
Hurling  huge  ships  o'er  and  o'er, 
Rending  mast  and  sail  as  naught. 

And  this  morning,  on  the  strand, 
See  thy  victims  stiff  and  cold, 
E'en  because  o'er  sea  and  land 
Thou'rt  a  murderer  of  old. 


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Rushing  through  yon  ancient  fane 
In  its  ruins  now  thou  blow'st, 
Waking  echoes  once  again, 
Waking  e'en,  perchance,  a  ghost. 

On  thou  sweep'st  from  pole  to  pole 
Whirling  clouds  in  chariot  trains, 
Forward,  backward  to  their  goal, 
Drenching  men  with  snows  and  rains. 


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FRIENDSHIP 

NOT  long  ago  a  rose-bud  chanced  to  roll 
From  off  a  lady's  bosom  to  the  ground. 
Unwittingly  she  crushed  it  'neath  her  sole, 
And  soon  a  cloud  of  fragrance  floated  round. 

Now  as  the  floweret,  rudely  torn  and  bruised, 
Gave  forth  its  richest  perfume  in  its  death; 
E'en  so  the  love  of  friendship,  though  misused, 
Doth  yield  its  fullest  store  with  its  last  breath. 

But  yet,  in  part,  the  simile  is  wrong, 

For,  unlike  flowers,  true  friendship  never  dies. 

Eternal  life  doth  unto  it  belong; 

It  roots  on  earth — it  blooms  beyond  the  skies. 


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TRUE  ECONOMY 

OFTTIMES  men  shrink,  from  lack  of  larger  means 
Than  seem  to  them  consistent  with  their  aims, 
From  vent'ring  where  their  inclination  leans — 
From  doing  what  would  glorify  their  names. 

One  wintry  day  a  lady  chanced  to  need 

A  fire  lighted  in  an  open  grate 

That  lacked  all  kinds  of  dry  and  fiery  seed, 

Though  andirons,  black  with  flames  insatiate, 

Upheld  large  sticks  of  wood. 

Yet,  having  not  what  every  one  requires, — 

Some  shavings,  tinder,  or  some  kindling  stuff, — 

For  starting  e'en  the  most  prosaic  fires, 

She  sweetly  smiled  and  said  she  had  enough 

To  make  her  purpose  good. 

So  plucking  off  a  tiny  piece  of  bark, 

That  scarce  would  fill  a  thimble  to  the  brim, 

In  this  she  quickly  caught  a  glowing  spark, 

Which  soon  was  flaming  like  fierce  Ilderim 

Among  the  turbaned  Turks. 

Then  piling  o'er  the  now  fast  ebbing  flame 

Some  splinters  snatched  from  off  a  piece  of  oak, 

The  cheery  blaze  soon  spread  into  the  same; 

And  giving  every  stick  a  skilful  poke, 

With  several  clever  quirks, 

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She  had  accomplished  what  she  undertook 
With  insufficient  means.    The  fire  roared, 
And  gave  the  room  a  cozy,  cheerful  look; 
The  curling  smoke  above  the  chimney  soared, 
Like  incense  from  the  hearth. 

Now  as  she  used  such  means  as  were  at  hand 
With  good  result,  however  poor  and  scant, 
E'en  so  may  all,  whose  work  is  nobly  planned, 
Complete  that  work  by  wills  of  adamant, — 
By  walking  in  one  path. 

Boys  often  think  the  hills  of  life  too  steep 

For  unshod  feet  to  climb;  its  seas  too  rough 

To  venture  forth  upon  the  stormy  deep. 

Let  them  be  daunted  not  by  stern  rebuff, 

But  only  forward  plod. 

Men,  likewise,  sometimes  say  the  heights  of  heaven 

Cannot  by  them  be  scaled.     They  only  need 

The  faith  all  souls  possess, — to  cast  the  leaven 

Of  wickedness  away,  to  gain  their  meed, 

The  righteousness  of  God. 


LOVE  LYRICS 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


TO  J.  J.  W. 

To  make  thine  hours  a  joy 

And  all  thy  days  be  bright, 

I  fain  would  all  my  powers  employ 

And  turn  my  day  to  night. 

That  ne'er  a  tear  might  flow 
From  out  thy  glistening  eyes; 
I  would  great  happiness  forego — 
'Twould  be  my  chief  emprise. 

No  cloud  thy  brow  should  shade, 
If  I  could  have  my  prayer, 
On  me  let  carking  cares  be  laid! 
For  thee  joy  everywhere! 

For  thou  art  more  than  life, 
Ay,  more  than  hope  of  heaven, 
For  thou  art  heaven  itself,  O  wife, 
Who  hast  to  me  been  given. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


WORTHLESS  RESOLUTIONS 

WHEN  the  clover  was  in  blossom 
Throwing  sweetness  on  the  air, 
When  the  shimmering  rays  of  sunlight 
Caught  the  gold  threads  of  your  hair, 
Then  I  felt  my  heart  go  from  me, 
Go  at  once  beyond  recall; 
The  heart  I'd  long  refused  to  give, 
Now  your  beauty  held  in  thrall. 

Quickly  vanished  from  my  mind 
The  remembrance  of  the  vow 
That  I  would  never  yield  to  love, 
Nor  to  woman's  beauty  bow. 
Oh,  our  worthless  resolutions! 
Just  the  sunlight  in  your  hair 
Brought  to  you  a  willing  slave 
Happy  to  be  kneeling  there. 


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NOTHING  TO  ME 

NOTHING  to  me,  and  yet  so  much, 
Aye !  more  than  all  the  world  beside  ; 
Everything — all — yet   the  gulf  between 
Is  deep  as  the  world  is  wide. 

Nothing  to  me — so  the  world  would  say- 
Would  that  I  could  say  it  too! 
Nothing  can  bridge  the  deep,  dark  gulf, 
For  I'm  less  than  nothing  to  you. 

Nothing  to  me,  and  yet  so  much! 
Forgotten  now  is  all  my  pride, 
I  own  you  are  much — aye,  more  to  me 
Than  the  gulf  is  deep  or  wide. 

Nothing  to  me, — ah,  no,  not  that  ; 
'Twere  better  far  if  that  were  true. 
'Tis  not  that  you  are  nothing  to  me; 
'Tis  I  that  am  nothing  to  you. 


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I  AM  A  KING 

I  AM  a  King!    You  do  not  see  my  throne? 
Ah,  no !     But  it  is  firmly  set 
Within  an  empire  all  my  very  own, 
And  hath  a  regal  coronet. 

And  when  was  I  enthroned  ?    Long  years  have  fled : 
My  Love,  a  wee,  sweet,  modest  thing, 
Then  strained  me  to  her  breast,  and  fondly  said: 
"Thou  reignest  o'er  my  heart,  my  King!" 


MY  QUEEN 

I  AM  a  Queen!     You  do  not  see  my  throne? 

Ah,  no !    But  it  is  set 

Within  an  empire  all  my  very  own, 

And  hath  a  coronet. 

And  when  was  I  enthroned?     Twelve  years  have 

fled— 

The  noblest  man  I've  seen 
Then  strained  me  to  his  breast,  and  fondly  said: 
"My  Queen!    Thou  art  my  Queen." 


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THY  KNIGHT 

IN  days  of  yore,  a  knight  swore  fealty 

To  one,  his  lady-love,  and  wore  her  scarf 

Upon  his  shield,  her  colors  o'er  his  heart, 

And   then   fared   forth  to  knightly  service   in  her 

name, 

To  win  her  cause,  or  die  in  the  attempt, — 
E'en  thus  have  I  sworn  fealty  to  thee, 
My  darling  wife;  thy  battles  would  I  fight; 
Thy  service,  dear,  shall  be  my  chief  emprise, — 
Thy  colors  o'er  my  breast,  and  on  my  lips 
The  subtle  fragrance  of  thy  last  caress, 
While  in  my  heart  the  thought  of  thy  great  love 
Shall  nerve  my  soul  to  deeds  of  puissant  men. 


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AMOR  OMNIA  VINCIT 

As  when,  of  old,  the  weary  vigil  o'er, — 

The  whole  night  spent  in  solemn  prayer  to  God, — 

The  candidate  for  knighthood  rose  from  off 

His  knees,  and,  facing  towards  the  altar,  stood, 

Awaiting  there  his  gracious  king  or  queen, 

To  sprinkle  holy  water  on  his  brow, 

And,  after,  smite  his  bended  shoulder  with 

The  accolade,  and  dub  him  proud  Sir  Knight: 

So,  many  years  ago,  one  bright  fresh  morn, 

A  lady  fair  and  sweet  baptized  my  brow 

With  holy  kiss  and,  after,  laid  her  hand 

Upon  my  shoulder,  with  the  solemn  words: 

"Thou  art  my  knight."     And  I,  with  heart  aflame, 

And  thrilling  with  the  contact  of  her  lips, 

And  humbled  by  the  thought  of  her  great  trust, 

Went  forth  to  knightly  service  in  her  name, 

Two  hearts  upon  my  crest,  and  on  my  shield 

The  legend  "Amor  omnia  vincit,"  and, 

Engraven  on  the  tablets  of  my  heart, 

That  peerless  name — my  well-loved  Josephine. 


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"YES"  OR  "NO" 

IF  maidens  only  knew  the  woe 
That  comes  from  saying,  "Yes,"  or,  "No," 
Their  debts  of  honor  would  be  small 
Or  they'd  not  philopene  at  all. 

Those  little  words, — how  much  they  mean 
Of  gladness  great  or  sorrow  keen! 
How  oft  the  horoscope  of  fate 
Reveals  a  "Yes"  or  "No"  too  late! 

The  welcome  "Yes" — how  soon  it  brings 
The  rapturous  kiss,  engagement  rings, 
The  orange  buds,  the  bridal  veil, 
The  vested  priest,  the  altar  rail. 

The  whispered  vows,  the  plighted  troth, 

The  wedding  into  one  of  both — 

The  solemn  ecstasy  of  bliss 

That  thrills  throughout  the  wife's  first  kiss. 

Alas  for  her  whose  shrinking  "No" 
Brings  to  the  cheek  no  freshening  glow ! 
Her  answer,  be  she  ne'er  so  good, 
Proclaims  a  life  of  maidenhood. 


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UNDYING  LOVE 

WHEN  the  sun  shall  cease  its  light, 
And  the  moon  not  shine  at  night; 
When  the  twinkling  stars  grow  old 
And  Earth's  mysteries  unfold, — 
Not  till  then  shall  we  forget. 

While  the  rain  falls  from  the  sky; 
While  God's  mercy  reigns  on  high; 
While  the  hours  make  the  day; 
While  men  toil  and  women  pray, — 
Dearest,  I  shall  love  thee  yet. 


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TO  FRIENDS 

DEAR  friends,  a  score  and  seven  brief  years  have 

fled, 

Since  ye  in  love  the  mystic  union  sought, 
Which  God  proclaimed  in  Eden's  paradise, 
Exhorting  man  his  parents  e'en  to  leave 
And  cleave  unto  his  wife  in  wedlock  fast, 
Whereby,  though  twain,  they  should  one  flesh  be 
come. 

Through  all  these  years  two  hearts  that  beat  as  one, 
United  by  those  bonds  that  can  not  break, — 
Love's  fetters,  forged  by  God  Himself  in  Heaven, — 
Two  souls  that  daily  grew  to  be  but  one, 
Have  animated  bodies  twain,  yet  joined 
In  one  by  virtue  of  Divine  command. 

Life's  fruit  ye  twice  have  plucked,  and  thus  have 

known 

The  names  of  Father,  Mother, — sacred  names 
That  tell  of  joy  excelled  by  that  alone 
Which  centres  in  those  others — Husband,  Wife. 
Your  eldest  was  a  son  of  gentle  ways, 
Your  next  a  daughter,  born  with  rarest  gifts, — 
A  daughter  unto  you,  and  unto  me 
As  dear  as  if  she  were  of  closest  kin. 

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Our  loving  Father  hath  been  merciful, 
And  hath  not  yet  allowed  Death's  messenger 
To  pass  the  threshold  of  your  happy  home, 
Although,  perchance,  this  year  he's  hovered  near; 
Nor    hath    much    sickness    sapped    your    pristine 

strength, 

Unnerved  your  arms  and  rendered  null  and  void 
The  labors  of  your  hands.    Your  neighbors  grant 
To  you  the  meed  of  well  deserved  respect 
For  sterling  worth,  and  those  who  look  behind 
The  chaffy  husk  of  externality 
Behold  in  you  a  spirit  free  from  guile, 
And  sanctified  by  knowing  Truth  Divine. 

May  many  years  be  yet  vouchsafed  to  you 
Of  powers  mellowed,  not  impaired  by  age ; 
And  when  your  sheaves  of  grain  are  fully  ripe, 
May  they  be  garnered  in  the  Harvest  Home 
Of  Paradise,  with  children's  children  then 
To  rise. and  call  you  blessed. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


TRUE  LOVE 

TELL  me  where  true  love  is  bred, — 
In  the  heart  or  in  the  head? 
How  begotten,  how  conceived? 
How  brought  forth  and  how  believed? 

Is  it  subject  to  the  will? 
Must  we  struggle,  or  be  still, 
When  our  hearts  are  in  its  thrall, 
When  in  captive  chains  we  fall? 

Whence  its  sceptre,  whence  its  power? 
Whence  its  welcome,  without  dower? 
Why  do  we  its  empire  own? 
Why  this  sovereign  enthrone? 

Is  true  love  a  deathless  thing? 
Or  serve  we  an  ephemeral  king? 
Can  we  our  beloved  forget? 
Can  the  sun  of  love  e'er  set  ? 

Love's  begot  by  God's  own  parts 
In  the  womb  of  human  hearts ; 
Born  of  opportunity 
In  some  one  itself  to  see. 

Neither  conscience  nor  the  will 
Can  its  throbbing  pulses  still ; 
Once  subjected  to  its  sway, 
Man's  a  prisoner  for  aye. 

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Though  he  beg  for  quick  release, 
Though  for  war  he  asketh  peace, 
Never  will  this  tyrant  yield, 
Stack  his  arms,  desert  the  field. 

God  hath  immortality; 

So  true  love  no  death  shall  see. 

Love  is  God,  for  "God  is  love," 

Heaven  and  earth  its  power  doth  move. 


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THE  MAID  OF  PENACOOK 

O  LITTLE  town  of  Penacook 
That  lies  far  from  the  sea, 
Within  thy  tribe,  as  I'll  describe, 
Thou  hast  one  dear  to  me. 
Thy  people  were  red  Indians 
Who  seldom  tilled  the  soil, 
But  now  there  is  a  charming  miss 
For  whom  I'd  delve  and  toil. 

As  honor  rare  was  once  bestowed 

On  Bethlehem  of  old, 

So  even  now  upon  thy  brow 

Rest  diadems  of  gold. 

For  as  that  city  entertained 

The  Mother  of  the  Lord, 

Upon  this  maid,  so  unafraid, 

The  Lord's  own  grace  is  poured. 

She  hath  a  face  so  beautiful 
That  angels  stop  their  flight, 
And  humbly  gaze  in  mute  amaze 
On  such  a  wondrous  sight. 
Upon  her  head  there  rests  a  crown 
Of  lustrous,  dark-brown  hair, 
While,  like  a  star  which  gleams  afar, 
Her  eyes  flash  love-light  rare. 

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The  blush  upon  her  radiant  cheek 
Would  put  a  rose  to  shame, 
And  from  her  lips  her  lover  sips 
A  draught  too  sweet  to  name. 
Her  willowy  form  is  tall  and  lithe, 
With  gently  moulded  curves, 
But  all  its  grace  no  pen  can  trace, 
Nor  tell  how't  thrills  the  nerves. 

O  little  town  of  Penacook 

That  lies  far  from  the  sea, 

The  better  part  of  a  fond  heart 

Is  dwelling  now  in  thee. 

Then  guard  this  maid,  I  humbly  pray, 

No  harm  let  her  incur, 

While  mortals  sleep,  may  angels  keep 

A  loving  watch  o'er  her. 


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A  SONG  WITHOUT  WORDS 

THE  sweetest  song  that  e'er  was  heard 
Has  sounded  in  our  ears, 
Sweeter  than  song  of  any  bird 
To  calm  its  fledglings'  fears. 

And  yet  the  song  has  had  no  words; 
'Twas  not  for  ears,  but  eyes, 
A  song  of  deeds,  as  when  one  girds 
His  loins  for  great  emprise. 

Just  as  the  knight,  in  feudal  times 
Wrote,  not  with  pen,  but  sword, 

So sings  not  notes,  nor  rhymes 

Of  her  so  much  adored, 

And — sings  the  same  sweet  song, 

In  silent  melody, 

Which  stirs  the  hosts  of  Mem'ry's  throng 

With  heartfelt  sympathy. 

• 

It  is  the  sweet,  old  song  of  love, 
That's  old,  but  always  new, 
When  human  hearts,  like  God's  above, 
Are  drenched  with  Eden's  dew. 


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TO  BERTHA 
An  Acrostic 

BETTER  than  silver,  better  than  gold, 
Ever  to  have  and  ever  to  hold, 
Reigneth  a  queen  in  this  heart  of  mine; 
Tender  her  sympathy,  sweet  are  her  charms, 
Happy  her  smile  as  she  lies  in  my  arms, 
All  this  is  true  of  my  dear  Valentine. 


A  PHANTASY 

LAST  night,  at  midnight,  while  I  slept, 
And  in  a  dream  my  love  I  saw, 
An  angel  down  from  heaven  swept, 
And  filled  my  soul  with  sacred  awe. 

"Why,  why,"  I  asked,  "dost  thou  draw  near? 
Art  thou  prepared  to  bear  away 
One  of  God's  children,  from  this  sphere, 
Into  the  Everlasting  Day? 

And  is  it  now  my  turn  to  go?" 
I  could  not  check  a  rising  sigh, 
For  love  was  forcing  me  to  know 
How  hard  a  thing  'twould  be  to  die. 

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"I  come,"  replied  the  child  of  light, 
"To  change  thy  joyous  dream's  pure  course, 
And  show  thee,  in  the  calm  of  night, 
How  love  may  yield  to  passion's  force." 

With  that  I  felt  her  presence  near, 
Whose  love  such  radiance  had  shed 
O'er  my  poor  life  as  made  it  dear! 
My  darling  stood  beside  my  bed. 

Her  white  arms  round  my  neck  she  threw ; 
Her  tender  lips  to  mine  she  pressed; 
While  the  night  breezes  gently  blew 
Her  golden  locks  around  my  breast. 

"Sweetheart,"  I  whispered,  "where  in  this, 
Or  in  that  brighter  world  above, 
Is  there  such  ecstasy  of  bliss 
As  we  have  tasted  in  our  love?" 

Alas!  these  words  were  scarcely  said, 
When  a  man's  image  crossed  my  sight, 
In  whose  ill-omened  face  I  read 
The  history  of  her  life's  blight! 

This  phantom  stopped  and  gazed  on  her, 
Then,  gazing  still,  it  passed  away; 
It  did  not  speak;  it  did  not  stir; 
But  scared  her  more  than  words  can  say ! 

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For  soon  an  anxious,  troubled  look 
Usurped  her  former  smile  serene! 
And  then,  O  God !  she  me  forsook, 
To  follow  him  whom  she  had  seen. 

Whom  soon  I  saw  her  overtake, 
While  fascinated  by  his  eye, 
As  Eve  once  yielded  to  the  snake, 
And  ate  the  fruit  that  made  her  die. 

Soon,  she  was  walking  by  his  side ! 
Soon,  listening  to  his  false  love's  tale, 
Which  he  avowed,  the  evil-eyed! 
By  turns  becoming  flushed  and  pale! 

And  soon  his  passionate  address 
Had  set  her  pulses  all  aglow! 
Then  he  received  her  sweet  caress 
Which,  once,  'twas  mine  alone  to  know. 

And  then,  O  cruel  shame  and  grief! 
My  rose  from  its  frail  stem  he  tore, 
And,  after  soiling  every  leaf, 
Cast  it  away  to  gather  more! 

It  lay  there,  crushed  and  soiled  with  dust  ; 
But  now  no  more  I  wished  it  mine, 
For  now  I  felt  a  deep  disgust 
For  what  before  had  seemed  divine. 

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Yet  in  my  heart  there  lingered  still 
A  sense  of  loss — an  aching  void — 
The  which  I  had  no  power  to  fill, 
Because  with  shame  'twas  now  alloyed. 

There,  by  my  side,  the  angel  stood, 
The  same  as  when  he  first  appeared, 
Save  on  his  white  wings  streaks  of  blood 
Gave  him  a  semblance  almost  weird. 

In  grief  I  cried,  "O  spirit,  speak, 
And  tell  me  what  this  dream  may  mean. 
In  agony  of  heart  I  seek 
To  understand  what  I  have  seen." 

Then,  so  intense  I  felt  my  pain, 
That,  with  a  sudden  start,  I  woke, 
Relieved,  refreshed  that  reason's  reign 
My  dream,  ill-omened,  would  revoke. 

Gay  as  a  lark,  I  left  my  bed, 
And  hastened  to  my  lady's  home. 
O  woe,  they  told  me  she  was  dead ; 
That  night  death's  messenger  had  come! 

Ah,  now,  at  last,  I  see  it  all, 
And  read  my  vision  clear  and  sure ! 
God  would  not  let  my  darling  fall, 
So  took  her  while  her  soul  was  pure. 

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THY  SWEET  PRESENCE 
To  J.  J.  W. 

WHEN  the  golden  stars  are  keeping 
Silent  watch  o'er  all  things  sleeping, 

And  the  night  is  still, 
Then  of  thee  my  thoughts  are  teeming, — 
If  asleep,  of  thee  I'm  dreaming, — 

And  my  pulses  thrill. 

When  the  busy  day  hath  brought  me 
Myriad  cares,  and  boys  have  sought  me, 

Till  my  soul  rebels; 
'Midst  all  duties,  cares  and  pleasures, 
As  the  sum  of  earthly  treasures, 

Thy  sweet  presence  dwells. 

When  I  fall  in  adoration, 
Or  in  humble  supplication, 

On  my  knees  to  pray, 
Then  I  ask  our  God  to  press  thee 
To  His  loving  heart  and  bless  thee 

Each  and  every  day. 

When  before  God's  altar  kneeling, 
All  Christ's  mercy  I'm  revealing 

To  my  fellow-men, — 
Then  our  human  love  I'm  blending 
With  His  heavenly  love  transcending: 

Thou  art  with  me  then. 

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IT  WAS  A  DREAM 

NOT  long  ago  a  maiden  fair  to  see, 

With  face  and  form  of  heavenly  radiancy, 

Before  the  altar  stood  with  me,  to  take 

Those  solemn  vows  which  death  alone  should  break. 

A  light  divine  shone  thro'  her  gleaming  eyes, 
That  seemed  to  mark  an  angel  in  disguise, 
A  thrill  of  rapture  quivered  through  her  frame 
As  she  looked  up  and  spoke  the  new-found  name. 

"My  precious  Wife!"  I  cried  with  bated  breath, 
"We  are  each  other's  now,  e'en  unto  death." 
Alas !     'Tis  true — things  are  not  what  they  seem. 
My  words  awakened  me — it  was  a  dream. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


TO  MY  WIFIE 

WIFIE  mine,  thou  best  and  dearest 

Of  all  women  in  the  land, 

Naught  I  dread,  and  naught  thou  fearest, 

With  love's  sceptre  in  thy  hand. 

Stretching  without  bound  or  measure, 
Lies  the  empire  of  my  heart; 
O'er  this  empire,  O  my  treasure, 
Sovereign  alone  thou  art. 

Humbly  bow  I  in  obedience 
To  the  ruler  of  my  life, 
Plighting  loyal,  true  allegiance 
To  the  queen  who  is  my  wife. 

Oh,  'tis  sweet  to  be  a  vassal, 
When  my  wifie  is  my  queen, 
Pledge  me,  then,  in  song  and  wassail, 
To  my  liege,  my  Josephine. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


THE  MAN  A  GIRL  SHOULD  CHOOSE 

THE  man  who  just  knows  all  about  you — 
Your  follies,  your  faults,  and  your  sins — 

Yet  who  loves  you  and  can't  live  without  you, 
Who,  when  told  of  your  antics,  just  grins. 

The  man — once  his  troth  has  been  plighted — 
Who  will  keep  every  promise  he  makes, 

Who  will  serve  his  fair  dame,  as  if  knighted, 
And  protect  till  each  bone  in  him  breaks. 

The  man  who,  although  you  may  wrong  him, 

And  make  yourself  unfit  to  touch, 
Yet  in  view  of  fond  mem'ries  that  throng  him, 

Will  forgive  you,  because  he  loves  much. 

When  you  look  for  a  spouse  you  can  tie  to, 

For  a  partner  who  will  play  the  game  straight, 

Choose  the  man  you  are  sure  wouldn't  lie  to 
A  woman,  though  death  sealed  his  fate. 


TO  MY  VALENTINE 

LET  me  tell  you,  Janie  dearest,  what  a  blessing  you 
have  been, 

Yes,  the  greatest  boon  and  comfort  that  my  eyes 
have  ever  seen : 

Darling  sweetheart,  precious  wifie,  and  the  mother 
of  my  line, 

And  on  February  fourteenth  you're  my  only  Valen 
tine. 

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A  VALENTINE 
To  J.  J.  W,  and  B.  L.  W. 

WERE  I  asked  to  tell  the  story 
Of  my  soul's  most  rapturous  joy — 
Joy  of  earth  or  joy  from  heaven, 
Purest  joy  without  alloy — 
Surely  there  would  be  two  moments 
Filled  with  bliss  beyond  compare. 
Both  can  never  be  forgotten, 
Each  most  sacred,  each  most  rare. 

One  is  surely  when  your  mother 
Placed  her  dainty  hand  in  mine, 
Speaking  words  of  love  and  reverence, 
Plighting  troth  before  God's  shrine. 
And  the  other  surely  would  be 
When  my  daughter  dear  was  born 
On  the  Feast  of  John  the  Baptist, 
Long  ago,  one  Friday  morn. 


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A  VALENTINE 

MARY  kissed  me  one  bright  morn, 
Annie  when  the  night  was  still, 

Jennie  only  looked  at  me, 

But  how  it  made  my  pulses  thrill! 

Mary's  kiss  was  soon  forgot, 

Annie's  lasted  but  a  day, 
But  ah!  the  kiss  in  Jennie's  eyes 

Thrills  me  now  and  will  alway. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


JUST  THAT  I'VE   HAD  YOU 

WHEN  I  think  of  all  the  treasure 
Fortune  showers,  without  measure, 

On  the  favored  few, 
Smitten  sore,  to  Fate  replying, 
This  the  thought  most  satisfying, — 

Just  that  I've  had  you. 

When  I  ask  our  God  to  send  me 
Heaven's  blessing  to  attend  me 

Till  my  journey's  through, 
This  the  one  I  crave  most  dearly, 
And  give  thanks  for  most  sincerely,— 

Just  that  I  have  you. 

When  I  stand  at  Heaven's  portal, 
Garbed  in  flesh  no  longer  mortal, 

To  receive  my  due, 
This  the  joy  of  joys  transcending, 
Joys  of  earth  with  heaven's  blending, 

Just  that  I'll  have  you. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP 

Two  spirits,  fair  and  bright  to  view, 
Dwell  in  the  human  heart; 
Their  looks  and  thoughts  so  far  estranged — 
Their  lives  so  far  apart! 

God  gave  them  power  to  govern  us, 
And  thus  due  grace  was  given, 
Either  to  bind  our  souls  to  earth, 
Or  raise  our  hopes  to  Heaven. 

How  difFrent  they!  Their  deeds  and  words 
Breathe  each  a  solemn  strain; 
Yet  Friendship  lendeth  naught  but  joy. 
Love  bringeth  grief  and  pain. 

And  Friendship,  stretching  forth  her  hands, 
Takes  many  to  her  heart; 
But  Love,  in  silence,  bows  her  head, 
And  holdeth  one  apart. 

Friendship,  with  calm  and  placid  mien, 
Smiles  on  the  human  race; 
But  Love,  who  needs  a  warmer  glow, 
Uplifts  a  tear-stained  face. 

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Yet  if  the  door  of  every  heart 
Stands  open  for  these  two, 
Pray  who  would  dare  to  banish  Love, 
And  summon  Friendship  through. 

Love  is  so  noble,  pure,  and  true, 
It  soars  above  all  strife; 
And  like  the  Eastern  aloe  tree, 
It  blooms  but  once  in  life. 

Friendship  may  fade,  and  droop,  and  die, 
Before  Suspicion's  breath; 
But  Love's  eternal — knows  not  change — 
Love  ling'reth  after  death. 


THY  LIPS 

ALL  the  fierce  joy  in  a  wild  bird's  nest, 

All  that  God  hides  in  a  mother's  breast, 

All  the  soft  radiance  of  twilight  and  star, 

Lighting  the  pathway  of  planets  afar, 

All  the  wealth  brought  in  the  bosoms  of  ships — 

All  became  mine  at  the  touch  of  thy  lips. 


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MY  LADY  FAIR 

I  KNOW  a  lady  sweet  and  fair, 
With  form  of  angel's  grace; 
A  shining  wreath  of  silken  hair 
Enshrines  her  classic  face. 

Do  I  love  my  lady  fair?  ye  ask — 
For  answer  tell  me,  pray, 
If  children's  lives  are  wont  to  bask 
In  a  mother's  love,  or  nay. 

And  ask  ye  why  I  love  her  so? 

Then  tell  me  yet  again 

Why  Mayflowers  bloom  beneath  the  snow; 

Why  women  will  love  men. 

And,  prithee,  tell  me,  if  you  will, 
Why  perfume  scents  the  flowers; 
Why  fragrant  flowers  at  eve  distil; 
Why  thyme  haunts  lovers'  bowers. 

And  can  ye  analyze,  once  more, 
The  secret,  hidden  call 
Which  music  hath  to  ope  the  door, 
The  heart  to  disenthrall. 

What,  No  ?    Then  how  can  I  impart 
To  you  the  ardent  flame 
That  lights  the  altar  of  my  heart 
At  mention  of  her  name. 

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And  know  ye  who  this  lady  is 
That  holds  my  love,  my  life, 
Whom  I  shall  love  eternities? 
I'll  tell  you,  'Tis  my  wife. 


LOVE  ETERNAL 

ONLY  love  can  never  die; 

Through  eternity  it  lives, 
Ever  growing  to  supply 

All  the  needs  its  presence  gives. 

Knowledge  vanishes  in  sight; 

Faith,  too,  ends  in  vision  clear; 
Hope,  the  goal  of  pure  delight, 

In  fruition  yields  its  sphere. 

Only  love  no  death  shall  know, 
Crowned  with  immortality; 

Love  shall  lighten  ev'ry  woe, 
Love,  the  one  reality. 


SONGS  OF  CHILDHOOD 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


A  CHRISTMAS  EVE  LULLABY 
To  Cousin  Leila  Fail 

O  HUSH  thee  now  my  baby, 

The  stars  are  shining  bright ; 

So  close  thine  eyes,  my  precious  child, 

Until  the  morning  light. 

But  when  the  day  shall  waken 
To  greet  the  Heavenly  King, 
Then  waken  too,  my  darling  child, 
And  hear  the  Church  bells  ring. 

Perhaps  you'll  see  Old  Santa 

In  sledge  by  reindeer  drawn, 

Who  brings  glad  gifts  to  children  good 

The  day  that  Christ  was  born. 

So  greet  him  Christmas  morning 
And  give  a  baby  coo, 
For  Christ  was  once  a  little  child, 
A  Baby  just  like  you. 

And  when  you've  grown  to  manhood, 
Then  strive  to  be  like  Him, 
For  in  the  light  of  His  pure  life 
All  other  lives  are  dim. 

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LULLABY 

SLEEP,  my  baby,  sleep, 

On  thy  mother's  breast! 

Sweet  the  deams  of  infants'  slumber; 

Holy  angels  without  number 

Guard  thy  peaceful  rest. 

Sleep,  my  baby,  sleep, 

In  thy  cradle  wee! 

Much  thy  tiny  limbs  must  lengthen, 

Much  thy  mind  and  soul  must  strengthen, 

Ere  a  man  thou'll  be. 

Sleep,  my  baby,  sleep, 

In  thy  little  cot! 

Let  the  joy  of  childhood  pleasures, 

Let  the  worth  of  baby  treasures, 

Never  be  forgot! 

Sleep,  my  little  man, 

In  thine  own  big  bed! 

Soon  to  manhood's  cares  I  yield  thee, 

But  thy  mother's  prayers  will  shield  thee, 

Whereso'er  thou  tread. 

Sleep,  my  baby,  sleep, 

On  thy  mother's  breast! 

Sweet  the  dreams  of  infants'  slumber; 

Holy  angels  without  number 

Guard  thy  peaceful  rest. 

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BABY'S  VOICE 

FLOWERS  blooming,  sweet  birds  singing, 
Please  alike  the  eye  and  ear; 
But  to  me  there's  something  sweeter 
In  the  sounds  which  now  I  hear. 
Ah !  it  is  a  sweet  voice  lisping 
Words  we've  waited  months  to  hear; 
You,  perhaps,  can't  understand  it 
But  to  me  it's  very  clear. 

"Papa,"  oh,  what  could  be  plainer? 
"Mamma,"  hear  the  darling  talk! 
Saying  what  we've  longed  to  have  her 
Though  one  step  she  cannot  walk ; 
Say,  what  music  can  be  sweeter? 
Surely  not  that  of  a  bird. 
Oh !  to  me  my  baby's  lisping 
Is  the  sweetest  sound  I've  heard. 


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A  CHILD 

A  CHILD,  good  friends — what  is  a  child  ? 
Alas!  who  can  fit  answer  make? 
We  must,  indeed,  be  reconciled 
An  incomplete  response  to  take. 

For  every  child,  whate'er  its  birth, 
Whate'er  its  providential  lot, 
Hath  heritage  beyond  this  earth, 
Which  keenest  vision  seeth  not. 

Unto  its  earthly  parents  lent 
A  brief  span  here,  on  highest  trust, 
The  Sender  surely  must  have  meant 
The  stewardship  to  be  most  just. 

A  child  has  body,  mind  and  soul, 
Each  clearly  separate,  and  yet 
Combined  into  one  mystic  whole — 
Was  e'er  such  wondrous  marvel  met? 

The  body  must  be  trained  with  care ; 
Its  passions  firmly  held  in  check, 
Else  its  machinery  will  wear 
And  e'en  become  a  doleful  wreck. 

And  then  the  mind,  the  intellect, 
The  judgment  throned  on  Reason's  seat,- 
To  train  this  right  do  you  suspect 
That  any  one  is  fully  meet? 

i  O2 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


The  teacher's  work,  if  nobly  done, 

Deserves  the  richest  recompense; 

But  it  is  only  half  begun, 

When,  called  by  Death,  we're  summoned  hence. 

And  if  the  mind  so  precious  be, 
How  shall  we  estimate  the  soul, 
With  its  eternal  destiny, 
Beyond  the  wisest  man's  control? 

Its  highest  needs  cannot  be  met 

By  any  work  of  man's  device ; 

The  soul,  dear  friends, — do  not  forget — 

Hath  qualities  beyond  all  price. 

Then  help  us,  gracious  Saviour,  dear, 
Who  e'en  Thyself  wast  once  a  Child, 
To  rear  our  children  in  Thy  fear, 
To  make  them  humble,  brave  and  mild. 

For  they  our  places  soon  must  take, 
They  soon  must  man  the  Ship  of  State ; 
God  grant  no  storms  its  helm  may  shake! 
No  crimes  of  ours  may  seal  its  fate! 


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AN  ODE  TO  MOTHERHOOD 

O  MOTHER  EARTH,  whose  teeming  womb 
All  life  in  Nature  hath  conceived, 
And  yet  hath  been  the  spacious  tomb 
Of  all  whom  Death  hath  not  reprieved, 
We  bow  in  reverence  on  thy  sod, 
And  hail  thee  as  the  Bride  of  God! 

O  holy  Mother,  Virgin  Maid, 
Who  hath  supernal  honor  won, 
Because  thy  soul  was  unafraid 
To  bear  God's  one-begotten  Son — 
Blest  Palestine  thy  feet  have  trod, 
Thee  too  we  hail  as  Bride  of  God! 

O  Mother  Church,  Who  art  the  Spouse 
Of  Him  Who  as  a  Bridegroom  came 
To  make  to  Thee  His  solemn  vows, 
And  honor  with  His  sacred  name, — 
With  Righteousness  Thy  feet  are  shod, 
Thy  robes  befit  the  Bride  of  God. 

O  mother  mine,  who  gave  me  life, 

And  who  for  me  hath  spent  thy  strength, 

Throughout  my  earthly  toil  and  strife, 

However  brief,  whate'er  its  length, 

I'll  call  down  blessings  on  thy  head, 

From  Him  whose  precious  blood  was  shed! 

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O  Mother  dear,  Jerusalem, 

The  blissful  home  of  God's  elect, 

The  city  known  to  only  them 

Whom  holy  angels  now  expect, 

Thy  golden  streets  our  feet  shall  roam 

When  Christ,  our  Lord,  shall  call  us  home. 

O  Woman-kind,  the  salt  of  earth, 
Whose  gifts  the  powers  of  men  transcend, 
For  you  alone  can  bring  to  birth, 
And  only  ye  can  comprehend 
What  is  by  men  not  understood, — 
The  mystery  of  Motherhood. 


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IN  REMEMBRANCE 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


TO  MISS  GAINFORTH 

LIKE  dew  distilled  from  vap'rous  air, 
Refreshing  all  beneath  its  touch; 
Like  sunshine  searching  everywhere, 
To  transform  little  into  much ; 
Like  gifts  to  one  who  never  prays, 
Bestowed  by  Him  who  sends  all  good, — 
Yea,  like  the  new  found  cathode  rays, 
Which  penetrate  the  solid  wood, — 
Some  natures  find  their  chief  delight 
In  seeking  how  they  best  may  please 
Their  friends,  and  make  their  lives  bedight 
With  golden  opportunities 
Of  knightly  service  done. 

Of  none  may  this  be  justly  said 
More  truly, — with  each  figure  true, — 
Than  of  St.  Mary's  noble  head, 
The  high-born  Lady  Montague. 
The  sparkling  dew  of  Christian  grace, 
Illumined  by  a  sunny  smile, 
Seems  e'er  reflected  on  her  face, 
Refreshing  some  one  all  the  while. 
And  rays  of  kindness  from  her  heart, 
Which  pierce  the  selfishness  of  earth, 
And  warmth  and  light  alike  impart, 
Reveal  a  soul  of  gentle  birth, — 
Like  that  of  Mary's  Son. 

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LADY  CARP 

IMPELLED  by  yearnings  of  a  brimming  heart 

To  paint  a  word-portrait  of  one  I  love 

And  honor  for  the  noble,  gracious  part 

She  plays  upon  life's  stage,  I  looked  above, 

With  eager  eye  and  listening  ear,  to  catch 

Some  word   my   Muse  might  speak  to  me — some 

word, 

Some  message  from  Euterpe  that  would  match 
The  subject  of  my  theme.    And  lo,  I  heard 
Euterpe's  voice  in  accents  clear: 

"A  portrait  you  would  paint  of  Lady  Carp  ? 

A  song  you'd  sing  of  her  with  lute  or  harp  ? 

Then  choose  a  canvas  of  unusual  length 

And  breadth,  and  summon  your  artistic  strength, 

For  you  will  need  the  acme  of  your  power, 

And  you  will  work  with  zeal  for  many  an  hour 

Before  her  features  you'll  delineate, 

And  then  you  needs  must  be  a  laureate. 

Let  these  directions  be  of  help  to  you, 

For  they  will  be  instructive,  though  but  few: 

Don't  strive  to  catch  the  looks  of  long  ago; 
Just  paint  her  as  she  is,  with  fervid  glow 
Of  youth  still  on  her  cheek  and  in  her  eye, 
Though  her  white  hair  proclaims  that  age  is  nigh." 

She  hath  a  form  of  regal  grace, 
A  mild  yet  stately  mien; 

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The  gracious  smile  upon  her  face 
Would  well  befit  a  queen. 

No  words  can  faintly  represent 
The  gleam  within  her  eyes, 
A  look  so  calm  and  confident, 
That  fear  could  ne'er  arise. 

A  forehead  high,  with  classic  brow, 
Betokens  lofty  thought; 
Should  her  firm  lips  once  make  a  vow, 
Her  will  would  see  it  wrought. 

And  yet  'tis  love  and  gentleness 

That  stamp  her  countenance 

With  soul-marks — this  would  all  confess — 

Of  Christ's  own  radiance. 

Upon  her  head  a  crown,  we  see,  * 
Of  glistening  white  is  placed, 
Which  gives  a  look  of  majesty 
That  can  not  be  effaced. 

Thus  Lady  Carp  to  me  reveals 
The  noblest  womanhood; 
And  when  at  her  I  gaze,  there  steals 
O'er  me  a  sense  of  good. 

No  portraiture  of  brush  or  pen 
Can  justly  body  forth 
The  depths  of  soul,  beyond  our  ken, 
That  mark  her  truest  worth. 

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Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


TO  C.  E.  P. 

0  LADY  fair,  of  gentle  mien, 
Whose  virtues,  though  but  dimly  seen 
Because  of  thy  great  modesty, 
Adorn  a  soul  of  truest  worth, 

Which  heeds  not  breeding,  rank,  or  birth, 

1  bow  to  thy  real  majesty. 

A  faithful  matron  hast  thou  been, 

The  most  devoted  we  have  seen 

In  quarter  of  a  century. 

We  grieve  to  think  that  we  must  part, 

But  warm  thy  place  in  ev'ry  heart, 

And  thou  art  more  content,  you  see. 

A  meed  of  thanks  I  wish  to  pay, 
On  this  (for  me)  sad  parting  day, 
For  all  the  kindness  thou  hast  shown. 
O  would  it  were  a  year  ago! 
How  glad  I'd  be  to  have  it  so, 
If  this,  my  wish,  could  be  thine  own ! 


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AN  APPRECIATION 
To  Miss  W.  R.  K. 

As  flashing  skies  reflect  the  westering  sun, 

And  shimmering  waves  the  opalescent  moon, 
So  Music  doth  reveal  the  love  of  God, 

As  mirrored  in  the  life  of  Christ  our  Lord. 
Unconscious  is  the  music-loving  soul 

Whose  image  it  reflects,  as  is  the  pool 
Whose  glistening  surface  meres  the  distant  stars, 

But,  none  the  less,  God's  photograph  is  clear. 

Such  soul,  dear  friend,  it  is  not  hard  to  see, 

Belongs  to  you  whose  fingers  and  whose  voice 
Interpret  Music,  whether  light  or  deep, 

To  souls  which,  otherwise,  were  deaf  or  mute. 
To  you  is  giv'n  the  power  to  make  them  hear, 

To  make  them  feel,  ay,  e'en  to  make  them  know 
How  vast  the  sway  triumphant  Music  hath 

The  heart  and  soul  of  man  to  disenthrall. 

No  thanks  are  sought,  I  know,  but  heart-felt  thanks 

I  beg  you  to  accept  for  your  sweet  songs 
So  beautifully  rendered  yesternight. 

Nor  thanks  alone.     This  meed  of  gen'rous  praise 
I  gladly  give  and  on  your  classic  brow 

I  would,  e'en  thrice  as  gladly,  love  to  place 
The  laurel  crown  which,  in  the  days  of  old, 

Olympia's  heroes  brave  were  wont  to  wear. 


Chips  From  a  Busy   Workshop 


TO  A  FRIEND 

0  FRIEND,  whom  God  hath  raised  from  bed  of  pain 
Unto  some  measure  of  thy  health  again, 
Surrounded  by  thy  family,  each  restored 

From  grievous  sickness  by  thy  gracious  Lord, 

Rise  thou  with  Him  this  glorious  Easter  morn, 

On  which,  so  many  hundred  years  agone, 

He  rose  triumphant — "first-fruits  from  the  dead" 

According  e'en  as  He  Himself  had  said. 

And  "if  thou  then  be  risen,  indeed,  with  Christ" 

This  day  our  Passover  was  sacricficed, 

1  charge  thee,  "seek  thou  things  that  are  above," — 
His  ever  ready  help,  His  endless  love; 

And  as  a  type  of  this  great  Easter  truth, 
Which  even  Nature  furnishes,  forsooth, 
Accept,  I  pray,  these  flowers  called  Easter  lilies 
Because  they  bloom  at  Easter — so  God's  will  is. 
The  seed  from  which  they  sprung  died  and  decayed ; 
Yet  from  its  death  these  flowers  were  born,  arrayed 
In  splendor  such  that  even  Israel's  King 
Fine  raiment,  fit  to  match  them,  could  not  bring. 


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ON  A  WEDDING  ANNIVERSARY 
To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  P.  F. 

ANOTHER  year  has  sunk  into  the  past 

With  scarce  a  ripple  to  disturb  the  face 

Of  Time's  smooth-gliding  stream.     One  mile-stone 

more 

Is  set  to  mark  the  progress  you  have  made 
Towards  life's  far  bourne,  or  near.     And  now  I 

pray 
That  peace — God's  peace — may  crown  the  coming 

years ; 

That,  like  the  bright  effulgence  which  enwrapped 
The  person  of  the  Lord  on  Hermon's  height, — 
Yea,  like  a  glowing  halo, — it  may  rest 
Upon  your  home,  and  sanctify  your  lives, 
And  make  them  meet  for  union  in  the  Home 
Of  many  mansions  round  the  throne  of  God. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


ANOTHER  MILESTONE 

ANOTHER  milestone  in  life's  path  thou'st  passed, 
Thou  art  another  year's  march  nearer  home, 
O,  canst  thou  not  begin  to  catch,  at  last, 
The  lights  that  play  around  the  great  white  throne? 

I  know  thy  pathway's  rough,  thy  feet  are  sore, 
Aweary  thou  must  be  of  life's  hard  way, 
But  Christ  thy  Lord  has  trodden  it  before, 
His  footsteps  keep.     Be  faithful,  watch  and  pray. 

A  joyful  welcome  waits  thy  journey's  end, 
In  Paradise  God's  weary  ones  find  rest, 
And  after  sojourn  there  thou'llt  find,  my  friend, 
A  home  among  the  mansions  of  the  blest. 


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BEULAH 

An  Acrostic 

BE  thou  rich,  or  be  thou  poor, 
Ever  shall  thy  dower  be  sure. 
Under  favor  of  thy  God, 
Life  will  bring  thee  great  reward. 
All  good  angels  guard  thee  well! 
Home  thy  empire !    Love  its  spell ! 


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LIGHTER  BURDENS,  OR  STRONGER 
BACKS? 

To  G.  T.  B. 

WHENE'ER  a  burden  sore  is  laid  on  thee, 
Consider  this  demand  of  equity: 
What  boots  it — whether  God  thy  load  remove, 
Or  strengthen  thee  to  bear  it  from  above? 

So  now,  in  this  thine  hour  of  poignant  grief, 
There  is  on  High  a  source  of  sure  relief. 
Though  heavy  burdened,  be  not  faint.    At  length, 
E'en  as  thy  need,  e'en  so  shall  be  thy  strength. 

Remember  this,  when  thou  art  sore  afraid, 
"Through  suffering  thy  Lord  was  perfect  made." 
So  when  with  suffering  thou  art  opprest, 
In  Him  thou'lt  surely  find  thy  strength,  thy  rest. 


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THE  EVERLASTING  HILLS 

To  Miss  G.  T.  B. 

LIFT  thine  eyes  unto  the  hills, 
Child  of  sorrow,  grief  and  fears, 
He  who  sends  both  joys  and  ills, 
Will  remove  thy  pain  and  tears. 

Be  not  thou  of  aught  afraid, 
Only  lift  thine  eyes  above. 
God,  the  Lord,  shall  be  thine  aid ; 
Let  Him  soothe  thee  with  His  love. 

Seek  not,  then,  the  valley's  cheer, 
None  but  highest  help  implore; 
Say  to  God,  "Incline  Thine  ear; 
Be  my  Helper  evermore." 

He  will  yet  to  thee  make  known 
Why  He  suffers  thee  to  grieve. 
'Tis  that  thou  may'st  be  His  own 
That  thou  may'st  in  Him  believe. 

So,  dear  friend,  whate'er  betides, 
To  the  Hills  lift  up  thine  eyes; 
Ever  faithful  God  abides, 
Ever  merciful  and  wise. 

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LIFE 
In  memory  of  H.  F.  C. 

A  DAY,  a  month,  a  year, 

Over  and  over  again ; 

A  smile,  a  sigh,  a  tear, 

And  the  bitter  and  sweet  have  been. 

A  day,  a  month,  a  year, 
The  same  old  tale  is  told ; 
A  hope,  a  doubt,  a  fear 
And  the  love  of  a  life  is  sold. 

A  day,  a  month,  a  year, 
So  ebbs  our  life  away; 
A  breath,  a  bride,  a  bier, 
A  tomb  and  slow  decay. 

A  year,  a  month,  a  day, 
Shorter  has  grown  the  span, 
As  a  flower  of  fleeting  May 
Is  the  life  of  mortal  man. 


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YOUR  LIFE  AND  MINE 
Also  in  memory  of  H.  F.  C. 

YOURS,  beyond  the  stars  of  heaven, 
Mine,  beneath  their  beam; 
Yours,  where  joy's  reality, 
Mine,  where  'tis  a  dream. 

Yours,  in  the  wonderful  spirit  land, 
Mine,  in  the  cumbrous  clay; 
Yours,  where  the  soul  knows  no  restraint, 
Mine,  longing  to  burst  away. 

Yours,  on  the  other  side  the  stream, — 
The  stream  we  here  call  death; 
Mine,  what  you  in  the  bright  above 
Call  but  a  passing  breath. 

Yours,  rilled  up  with  pure  delights, 
Mine,  with  things  of  earth ; 
Yours,  perfecting  the  soul's  best  powers, 
Mine,  where  they  scarce  have  birth. 

Through  wonderful  realms  of  endless  space 
Your  soul  may  roam  at  will; 
Mine,  in  the  gloom  of  its  prison  house 
Must  struggle,  yet  be  still. 

We  are  kindred  souls,  and  yet  as  much 
They  differ — your  life  and  mine, 
Yours  was  once  the  heavier  cross, 
But  now  true  bliss  is  thine. 

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Nor  would  I  have  it  otherwise, — 
Thine  the  victor's  crown, 
I'll  follow  on  where  you  have  led 
With  the  work  your  hands  laid  down. 


TO  M.  B.  C. 

DEAR  heart,  thou  biddest  me  withdraw  the  veil 
That  screens   the   inmost  chamber   of  my  soul. 
Thou  fain  would'st  enter  in  and  have  revealed 
To  thine  own  eyes  the  glowing  flame  that  burns 
Unquenchable  on  Friendship's  sacred  hearth. 
I  will.     But,  like  the  Jewish  priest  of  old, 
Who  entered  not  within  the  Holy  Place — 
The  Holiest  of  All — until  made  pure 
By  ceremonial  washing  claimed  by  God, 
And  not  without  an  offering  of  blood, 
And  burning  coals,  and  gifts  of  incense  sweet; 
E'en  thus  do  thou  first  cleanse  thine  heart  by  prayer 
And  bring  oblations  meet  to  be  received 
By  one  thus  willing  to  disclose  the  thoughts 
Before  known  only  by  himself  and  God. 

Now,  as  within  the  Holiest  of  All 
There  seemed  a  dearth  of  living  verities, 
To  call  for  such  unbounded  reverence — 
For  naught  but  Israel's  Ark  of  Covenant 
Between  God's  chosen  people  and  Himself 

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Appeared,  wherein  were  three  symbolic  things: 
The  golden  pot  containing  heavenly  food, 
The  mystic,  budding  rod  of  Aaron,  and 
The  stony  tablets  writ  by  God's  own  hand; 
So  in  the  Sanctuary  of  my  heart 
Thou  canst  but  three  things  see, — invisible 
To  all  but  Thee:  the  holy  Covenant, 
Between  us  made,  of  Friendship  unto  death, — 
Yea,  after  death,  throughout  eternity; — 
The  Eucharistic  Food  by  which  this  league 
Is  kept ;  and  last  the  rod  of  chastened  love 
That  points  us  daily  nearer  unto  God. 

And  as  above  the  Ark  there  ever  dwelt 

Invisible — for  eye  hath  never  seen 

Nor  can  it  ever  see — God's  awful  Form, 

The  dread  Shekinah,  symbol  of  I  AM, 

To  guard  His  holy  mysteries  from  harm, 

So  doth  my  soul  keep  unremitting  watch 

O'er  these  its  precious,   deathless  mysteries. 

And  as,  once  more,  no  word  was  spoke  between 

The  priest  who  entered  in  and  Him  who  dwelt 

Forever  there,  so  let  no  word  betray — 

For  it  would  absolutely  pow'rless  be — 

The  love  that  reigns  between  myself  and  thee. 

Where  voice  is  vain,  be  it  enough  to  see; 

And  yet,  dear  friend,  remember  this — 

Of  deepest,  loftiest  thoughts  the  best 

Are  those  which  cannot  be  expressed, 

So  all  my  noblest  thoughts  of  you 

Although  unuttered  are  no  less  true. 

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TO  COUSIN  RUTH 

WHEN  a  girl's  "just  growed  up,"  like  Josh  Billings's 
pup, 

To  a  woman  so  beauteous  and  dainty, 
Her  cousin's  excusable,  and  it  is  not  refusable, 

If  he  wishes  to  know  her — now  ain't  he? 

So  he  sends  invitation  with  joyful  elation 
To  this  lady,  who  lives  down  in  Winsted, 

To  discuss  turkey  roast  "on  the  day  we  eat  most," 
But  she  writes  him  a  fine  poem  instead. 

Oh,  the  poem  was  good,  if  any  one  could 

Prefer  clever  words  to  a  woman, 
But  to  own  up  to  this  inconceivable  bliss 

Is  to  be  more  angelic  than  human. 

It  reminds  me — disclosed — of  the  man  who  proposed 
To  a  girl  and  was  offered  her  sister: 

But  he  set  matters  right  on  that  very  same  night, 
When  he  hugged  the  fair  damsel  and  kissed  her. 

So  the  next  time  we  meet,  be  it  market  or  street, 

I  shall  surely  demand  satisfaction 
Of  my  fair  Cousin  Ruth,  who,  I  hope  it's  the  truth, 

Won't  resent  such  a  cousinly  action. 

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TO  B.  F. 

On  Receiving  a  Calendar  for  ign 

IF  by  your  act  you  wished  to  convey 
That  I  am  to  think  of  you  every  day, 
You  couldn't  have  hit  on  a  neater  device, 
As  sure  as  there's  snow  on  the  edelweiss. 


ON  RECEIVING  A  CALENDAR  FROM 
B.  F. 

IF  all  the  hours  of  all  the  days 

Were  spent  in  singing praise, 

Three  hundred  sixty-five  would  be 
Too  few  to  do  her  equity. 

Another  calendar,  or  two, — 
Nay,  even  that  would  hardly  do! 
At  least  a  score  would  be  required 
To  fill  the  measure  that's  desired. 


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TO  G.  T.  B. 

WHAT'S  woman's  beauty  but  an  air  divine 
Through  which  the  soul's  all  radiant  graces  shine? 
E'en  so,  dear  friend,  thy  loveliness  of  form 
Is  matched  by  graces  which  thy  soul  adorn. 

Grace,  thy  name,  God's  grace,  thy  charm, 
Grace,  the  feature  of  thy  form, — 
Who  can,  then,  thy  beauty  fill, 
But  some  one  more  graceful  still? 

If  one  should  ask  thy  chiefest  grace, 
'Twould  not  be  that  of  form  or  face; 
But  that  "greatest"  grace  'twould  be, — 
The  selfless  grace  of  charity. 


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TO  C.  M.  J. 

As  fragrance  wells  from  hearts  of  flowers ; 

As  dew  from  mist  distills; 

So  flows  C — 's  love  in  showers; 

So  children's  hearts  she  thrills. 

O  may  she  find  the  truest  love 
To  match  and  bind  her  own! 
O  may  her  life  below,  above, 
Be  sheltered  by  God's  throne. 

And  if,  perchance,  a  child  be  given, 
Her  home  to  bless  and  cheer, 
May  all  her  mother's  grace  from  Heaven 
In  Baby  reappear. 

May  she  be  blest  with  length  of  days; 
From  sorrow  find  release; 
And  spend  eternity  in  praise 
And  everlasting  peace. 


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GLADNESS  AND  SADNESS 
To  B.  L.  W. 

WHEN  we  reckon  the  sad  things  we  cannot  but  see, 
What  is  sadder  than  Cupid  in  cupidity? 
Just  as  when  other  nations  attempted  to  crush  her, 
The  gladdest   thing   I've   seen's   the   Rush   in   old 

Russia. 

Yet  another  sad  thing  is  the  War  in  the  water, 
And   if  you   were   my   sweetheart   instead   of   my 

daughter, 

And  if  from -all  pain  I  wished  for  immunity 
I'd  find  it  alone  when  I'd  found  you  in  Unity. 


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GREETING  TO  GRANDMA 
To  M.  H. 

GOOD  morning,  dear  Grandma !     Good  morning,  I 

say, 

I  wish  you  good  health  on  this  beautiful  day. 
I  hope,  as  it  passes,  'twill  bring  you  much  joy, 
And  nothing  to  greatly  annoy. 

If  I  were  a  grandma,  I'd  have  a  fine  time. 
I'd  give  to  each  grandchild  a  quarter  or  dime. 
And  then  I  would  chuckle,  to  see  how  they'd  run 
To  buy  them  a  Banbury  bun. 

Just  take  a  long  ride  in  the  automobile, 
And  see  how  much  better  'twill  make  grandma  feel. 
I  hope  that  the  sunshine  and  warmth  of  the  day 
Will  drive  all  your  lameness  away. 

Augusta  and  Stanley  are  waiting  for  me 
To  swing  in  the  hammock  we've  hitched  to  the  tree. 
So,  Grandma,  I  bid  you  a  loving  farewell, 
To  play  till  I  hear  the  school  bell. 


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F.  E.  STANLEY 

AT  Kingfield,  Maine,  in  forty-nine, 
Was  born  a  man  of  kingly  stripe — 
In  stature  like  an  old-growth  pine, 
In  mental  parts  of  noblest  type. 

Endowed  by  God  with  native  power 
To  see  what  is  by  most  unseen — 
Dame  Nature's  richest,  highest  dower — 
He  scanned  the  view  with  vision  keen. 

And  feeling  then  the  artist's  thrill 
To  reproduce  the  mind's  concept, 
He  practised  portraiture  with  skill, 
And  in  this  work  became  adept. 

But  finding  that  old  Artist  Sol 
Could  discount  his  geography, 
He  listened  to  the  far-sent  call 
And  so  took  up  photography. 

In  this  his  genius  came  to  birth, 

For  though  this  birth  was  somewhat  late, 

It  proved  to  be  of  truest  worth, 

For  he  invented  the  Dry  Plate. 

This  inspiration  brought  him  fame, 
And,   incidentally,  large  wealth; 
For  every  tyro  knew  his  name, 
And  every  craftsman  drank  his  health. 

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In  port  or  champagne?     Nay,  not  so; 
For  temperance  is  Stanley's  creed, 
And  temperance  can  never  know 
A  stronger  drink  than  raspberry  mead. 

Removing  from  his  native  state 
To  grand  old  Massachusetts'  soil, 
He  settled,  with  his  dear  helpmate, 
In  Newton,  to  renew  their  toil. 

Here  Fortune's  gifts  awaited  them, 
And  Fortune  gave  with  lavish  hand ; 
For  family  joys  elated  them, 
And  honors  came  at  worth's  command. 

At  length  in  nineteen  hundred  three 
George  Eastman  bought,  at  good,  round  price, 
The  Stanley  Dry  Plate  Company — 
Its  patents  and  its  great  device. 

And  then,  in  full  maturity, 

The  Stanley  genius  blossomed  forth, 

In  patents  for  security, 

From  West  to  East,  from  South  to  North. 

The  end  and  object  now  in  view 
Was  to  create  the  Stanley  Steamer, 
And  if  you  look  in  "Who's  Who" 
You'll  find  he  built  a  perfect  screamer. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


Of  all  the  autos  in  the  land 
No  other  has  attained  such  speed; 
And  if  it's  comfort  you  demand, 
In  this  respect  it  takes  the  lead. 

A  mile  a  minute  used  to  be 
Unheard  of  time  for  any  car; 
But  by  the  record  you  will  see 
That  Stanleys  have  gone  twice  as  far. 

Now,  in  the  ripeness  of  his  powers, 
Our  friend  enjoys  deserved  leisure, 
And  spends  the  onward-rushing  hours 
In  social  joys  and  kindred  pleasure. 

Occasionally  in  his  shirt-sleeves 
One  finds  him  fashioning  a  fiddle, 
For  manual  labor,  he  believes, 
Will  help  to  solve  Old  Age's  riddle. 

At  home,  surrounded  by  his  books, 
He  loves  to  see  the  children  play; 
He  revels  in  their  cheery  looks, 
And  with  them  spends  his  holiday. 

At  various  clubs,  and  with  his  friends, 
His  well-considered  views  are  sought; 
And  what  he  speaks  or  writes  depends 
On  what  he's  read  and  what  he's  thought. 

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Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


One  quality  our  friend  possesses 
Of  which  no  mention  has  been  made, 
But  this,  as  every  one  confesses, 
Casts  all  the  others  in  the  shade. 

Outshining  Justice'  gleaming  face, 
Stands  beauteous   Hospitality; 
And  next  to  her,  in  second  place, 
Sits  radiant  Cordiality. 

These  Graces  three  adorn  the  home 
Of  Francis  Edgar  Stanley; 
And  many  leagues  we'd  have  to  roam 
To  find  a  man  more  manly. 


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IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


THE  NEW  SPELLING 

ACCORDING  to  the  latest  rule 
A  girl's  not  dressed,  but  "drest" 

But  when  I  used  to  go  to  school 
I  guessed  what  now  is  "guest," 

And  when  we  used  to  kiss  the  girls 
They  were  not  "kist"  I  trust, 

But  now  they  shake  their  pretty  curls 
And  think  they're  "bust''  not  bussed. 

And  if  a  man  and  maid  should  plan 

To  keep  a  lovers'  tryst, 
If  she  should  disappoint  the  man, 

She'd  not  be  missed  but  "mist." 

Now  when  I  was  a  little  boy, 

My  clothes  were  sometimes  mussed. 

But  now  the  children  will  annoy 
Their  ma's  by  getting  "must" 

The  Literary  Digest  thinks 

That  words  should  thus  be  "spelt" 

And  "T.  R."  uses  all  the  kinks, 
When  by  hard  knocks  he's  "felt." 

But  I  was  taught  with  certainty 
That  spelled  's  the  past  of  spell, 

And  that  for  sins  like  this  there'll  be 
A  literary  hell. 

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Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  TRANS 
PORTATION 

IN  ancient  times  it  was  the  rule 
To  journey  far  by  horse  or  mule; 
Then  steam  and  electricity 
Gave  travel  a  publicity. 

Next  came  the  "honk"  and  auto-car 
For  those  who'd  travel  fast  and  far; 
And  after  this  the  aeroplane 
Buzzed  through  the  air  'mid  snow  or  rain. 

But  now  the  latest  thing  is  this, 

To  give  the  trav'ler  perfect  bliss: 

If  you  would  ride  from  coast  to  coast, 

Stick  on  some  stamps — go  Parcel  Post. 


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Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


THE  THIEF 

A  THIEF  is  one  who  steals ; 
Regard  for  him  none  feels, 
Save  he  repent,  forsake  his  sin, 
Restore  the  stolen  goods  again, 
And  keep  the  Golden  Rule. 

I  stole  a  kiss  one  day, 

A  blithesome  day  in  May: — 

"You  are  a  thief!"  the  sweet  maid  cried, 

But  in  her  face  no  wrath  I  spied, 

As  home  she  tript  from  school. 

"I'll  give  it  back,"  quoth  I, 

"E'en  ten  for  one,  or  die. 

I  swear  I  only  did  to  thee 

What  I  would  have  thee  do  to  me." 

Now  was  I  thief,  or  fool? 


139 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


THE  WAY  TO  WAREHAM 

ONCE  a  lady,  clad  in  bloomers, 
Careless  of  unfounded  rumors, 

"Wheeled"  towards  Wareham  town. 
Coming  to  unmarked  "four  corners," 
Near  the  home  of  Farmer  Homers, 

She  at  once  jumped  down. 

Spying  some  one  near  the  stable, 
Whom,  she  thought,  to  tell  her  able, 

She  addressed  him  thus: 
"Is  this  the  way  to  Wareham,  Mister?" 
"Blamed  if  I  know,  pretty  sister! 

Ask  my  wife,  or  little  Gus." 


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Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


PARDONABLE  UNFAITHFULNESS 

WHEN  wife  and  I  were  married, 
A  score  of  years  ago, 
She  promised  to  be  faithful, 
Come  happiness  or  woe. 

At  first  she  seemed  to  love  me ; 
I  thought  her  true  as  steel; 
Alas !  there  is  another 
To  whom  she  makes  appeal. 

O  fickle-hearted  woman! 
How  strange  the  tale,  how  sad ! 
She's  bowled  completely  over! 
But  then — why,  I'm  his  dad! 


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Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


PHILOPENA 

WHEN  a  girl  has  a  mind  and  is  fully  inclined 
To  give  a  negative  answer, 
It  is  awfully  mean,  when  she's  all  serene, 
For  a  man  to  attempt  to  entrance  her. 

And  if  she  say  "Yes,"  and  has  to  confess, 
Because  the  man  has  entrapped  her, 
Would  it  be  meaner  still — or  give  her  a  thrill, 
If  in  his  strong  arms  he  enwrapped  her? 

And  if  she  declared,  because  all  ensnared, 

That  she  wished  to  be  only  his  sister, — 

Now    what    do    you    think — would    she    horribly 

shrink, 
If  he  reverentially  kissed  her? 

And  if  then  she  took  pains  to  blot  out  his  stains 
With  the  handsomest  kind  of  a  blotter, 
On  which  she  had  spent,  to  her  heart's  full  content, 
A  great  deal  more  time  than  she'd  "ought  ter," — 

A  blotter  so  fine,  'twere  a  sin.  to  enshrine 
Beneath  its  bright  stars  and  its  flowers 
A  record  illegible,  all  unintelligible, 
Of  Cupid's  invisible  powers, — 

Wouldn't  you  think  that  the  man  would  narrowly 

scan 

His  conduct,  in  view  of  her  shiver^ 
And  nobly  determine,  e'en  though  he  wore  ermine, 
To  cherish  the  gift  and  the  giver? 

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Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


TO  MISS  L.  S.  B. 

On  receiving  a  silver  heart  key  ring  for  a  Philopena 
present 

SINCE  you  gave  me  your  heart  with  a  very  sweet 
"Yes," 

I  will  give  you  this  verse  in  return; 

Had  your  answer  been  "No,"  you  will  surely  con 
fess 

That  the  diff  would  be  hard  to  discern. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


PHILOPENA 
To  Miss  C.  M.  J. 

WHEN  a  girl  on  a  train  makes  a  man  use  his  brain 
So  hard  as  to  win  Philopena, 
She  will  have  to  pay  debts,  even  tho'  she  ne'er  bets, 
Or  else  get  some  one  to  screen  her. 

It  is  pretty  hard  lines  to  have  to  pay  fines, 
When  you're  guilty  of  no  offences 
But  to  say  "Yes"  or  "No,"  when  you  hate  to  do  so, 
And  are  frightened  half  out  of  your  senses. 

But  there  are  times,  I  guess,  when  it's  sweet  to  say 

"Yes" 

To  a  man  who  will  tenderly  love  you : 
When  the  moon  in  the  sky  seems  hovering  nigh, 
And  the  stars  are  twinkling  above  you. 

'Tis  the  blessing  of  life  to  be  asked  to  be  wife, 
When  you  want  to  say  "Yes"  in  a  hurry: 
So  wherever  you  go,  may  you  never  say  "No" 
To  the  man  whom  you're  anxious  to  worry. 


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Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


THE  FLYING  MACHINE 

IT  long  has  been  conceivable, 
To  navigate  the  air, 
Though  never  quite  believable 
That  one  could  journey  there. 

But  now  the  thing  is  feasible, 
Quite  easy  to  be  done ; 
It  may  excite  the  risible, 
But  then  it's  lots  of  fun. 

Just  take  my  lady's  latest  gown, 
With  mutton-legged  sleeves, 
And  skirt  that's  plaited  up  and  down, 
Like  ancient,   fluted  greaves. 

Let  the  "new  woman"  talk  awhile 
Into  those  shapely  puffs, 
And  they  will  take  you  up  a  mile, 
If  you  close  the  neck  and  cuffs. 

And  when  you're  ready  to  descend, 
It  really  is  quite  cute, 
Just  spread  the  full  skirt's  lower  end,- 
'Tis  a  la  parachute. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


HEIGHT,  BREADTH,  OR  LENGTH 

SOME  men  prefer  a  wife  petite, 
Who  never  makes  a  rumpus ; 
They  say  that  always  goods  most  sweet 
Are  wrapped  in  smallest  compass. 

Others  affirm  that  staunchest  ships 
Are  known  by  breadth  of  beam; 
They  choose  a  wife  with  stalwart  hips, 
Who  takes  a  goodly  seam. 

But  I  was  taught  long,  long  ago, 
In  adage  and  in  song: 
"Man  wants  but  little  here  below," 
But  wants  that  little  long. 


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Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


NEVER  MIND  THE  PONY 

NOT  long  ago,  an  honest  pair, 

Devoted  to  Christianity, 
Were  troubled  that  their  only  son 

Was  given  to  profanity. 

In  every  way  within  their  power, 

They  tried  to  check  the  cursing  youth — 

By  threats,  by  promises,  by  bribes — 
In  ev'ry  blessed  way,  in  truth. 

The  only  thing  that  seemed  to  make 
On  him  the  very  least  impression, 

Was  when,  one  night,  they  chanced  to  speak 
Of  Shetland  ponies,  by  digression. 

But  as  our  friends  could  not  afford 

A  gift  so  costly  for  their  son, 
Their  hopes  to  rectify  his  fault 

Were  brought  to  naught,  when  scarce  begun. 

At  length,  to  pay  a  social  debt, 

They  planned  to  dine  their  minister, — 

A  godly  man,  no  doubt,  and  true, 
But  rather  glum  and  sinister. 

Before  the  dreaded  day  arrived, 

Of  ministerial  visitation, 
They  interviewed   their  graceless  son, 

Intent  on  social  obligation. 

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Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


"Now  son,"  they  said,  in  earnest  tones, 
"If  you  will  never  swear  again 

As  long  as  you  live  'neath  our  roof, 
That  pony  shall  be  yours,  dear  Ben." 

Ben  made  the  promise,  fair  and  square, 
Much  to  his  parents'  pure  delight; 

The  pony  came,  the  pony  saw, 
The  pony  conquered  all  in  sight. 

But,  next  day,  came  the  parson  too, 
In  answer  to  the  invitation; 

Around  the  festive  board  they  sat, 
The  family  in  high  elation. 

When  soup  was  handed  to  the  guest, 
This  course  he  thankfully  declined, 

Remarking  that  in  his  own  home, 
He  seldom  took  it  when  he  dined. 

Next  came  the  fish,  the  second  course, 
And  this  the  parson,  too,  refused, 

Begging  his  hosts  with  courtesy, 

That  he,  in  sooth,  might  be  excused. 

When  tasty  venison  was  passed, 

This  godly  Unitarian 
Exclaimed  in  accents  sweet  and  low: 

"I  am  a  vegetarian." 

Poor  Ben  looked  on,  in  sore  amaze, 
At  such  a  foolish  exhibition, 

And  wondered  in  his  boyish  mind, 
What  parsons  did  take  for  nutrition. 

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Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


When,  in  due  course,  ice  cream  was  served, 
And  this  the  parson  too  declined, 

Ben's  wonder,  turning  to  contempt, 
Broke  forth  in  language  not  refined : 

"Don't  mind  the  pony,  Dad,"  he  cried, 
"Confound   my  everlasting   luck! 

But  give  this  blamed  old  fool  D.  D. 
A  goose's  egg  or  two  to  suck." 


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Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


MELLEN'S  FOOD 

MAN'S  earliest  food,  forsooth,  is  milk, 
Drawn  from  his  mother's  breast; 
When  this  supply  begins  to  fail, 
Then  "Mellen's  Food"  is  best. 

And  now  throughout  our  Fatherland 
The  habit  still  holds  good, 
For  all  the  railroads  of  the  East 
Will  soon  be  Mellen's  food. 


ISO 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


SNYDER-CURE  HAM 

ITS  favor  with  consumers, 
Is  not  due  to  idle  rumors, 

As  you  surely  will  acknowledge  when  you  try  it. 
"It  is  tasty,  it  is  tender!" 
Is  the  verdict  you  will  render, 
When  you  boil  it,  when  you  bake  it,  when  you  fry 
it. 

If  you'd  do  yourself  a  favor, 

And  you  like  a  ham  with  flavor, 

You  should  always  buy  the  famous  "Snyder-cure"; 

If  you  broil  it,  if  you  fry  it, 

Or  any  way  you  try  it, 

You  will  like  this  ham  and  bacon,  that  is  sure. 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


TO  B.  &  S.  CO. 

To  the  firm  that  is  gen'rous,  the  firm  that  is  fair, 

The  firm  to  depend  on  to  be  on  the  square, 

To  this  firm  of  good  fellows  whose  friendship  I 

boast 
I  lift  high  my  glass  and  offer  this  toast: 

May  the  Snyder-cure  Ham  and  likewise  the  Bacon 
Ne'er  lack  customers  till  of  sense  they're  forsaken! 
During    nineteen-nineteen    may    your   business    in 
crease  ! 

May  prosperity  reign!  May  your  luck  never  cease! 
May  all  things  increase — like  a  boy's  store  of  jelly — 
Save  only  the  size  of  the  Vice-President's  belly! 


152 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  MAN'S  CLOTHES 

THE  fig-leaf  apron's  often  called 
The  earliest  garment  worn  by  man  ; 
But  this  is  wrong.     Don't  be  appalled 
To  hear  it  was  a  coat  of  tan. 

When  Adam  was  from  Eden  driven, 
The  question  was  what  he  should  wear; 
And  at  that  time  to  him  was  given 
A  coat  of  skins  that  wouldn't  tear. 

But  Eve  was  likewise  clothed  the  same, 
And,  save  the  aprons  they  had  made, 
They  had  no  garments  to  their  name, 
And  for  a  while  kept  in  the  shade. 

As  Adam's  legs  were  often  cold, 
Though  near  the  latitude  of  France, 
He  finally  became  so  bold 
As  to  appear  in  things  called  pants. 

So  pants  were  made  for  man,  we  see, 
And  man  was  made  for  pants, 
No  woman,  with  propriety 
In  them  can  ever  dance. 

Yet  woman  pants  for  man  with  tears, 
And  man  for  woman  pants; 
And  thus  a  pair  of  pants  appears 
With  frequent  sigh  and  glance. 

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But  if  the  man,  in  such  a  case, 
Be  one  who's  blest  with  riches, 
Unless  he  keep  a  steady  pace, 
His  pants  will  turn  to  breeches. 

And  then  he'll  need  nor  coat  nor  vest, 
If  he  or  cold  or  warm  is, 
From  head  to  foot  he  will  be  dressed 
In  suit  for  breach  of  promise. 


154 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


THE  STANLEY  STEAMER 

IF  you  want  a  car  with  power, 

Steady-going  hour  by  hour, 

You  should  choose  the  Stanley  car  that  uses  steam. 

It  will  take  the  steepest  hill 

With  a  pace  that  makes  you  thrill, 

And  the  fuel  cost  will  set  your  eyes  agleam. 


TO  DORCAS 

IF  a  hundred  young  men  should  assemble  together 
To  decide,  by  the  way  of  a  caucus, 
Who's  the  daintiest  maiden,  with  honey-dew  laden, 
They  would  cast  all  their  votes  for  our  Dorcas. 

And  if  from  the  caucus  they  all  should  return 
With  each  heart  pierced  through  by  a  foeman, 
They  would  surely  declare,  and  solemnly  swear 
That  their  hearts  had  been  pierced  by  D.  Bomann. 


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A  FABLE  FOR  CRABBERS 

THERE  was  once  a  young  fellow  named  Burge, 
At  whose  death  the  brass  band  played  a  dirge; 
When  he  got  to  heaven's  gate,  where  the  guardian 

sate, 
He  was  cutting  no  end  of  a  splurge. 

When  thrice  our  friend  Burgy  had  knocked, 
The  portal  was  quickly  unlocked; 
St.  Peter  appeared  and  Burge  was  afeared 
That  his  way  was  effectively  blocked. 

"Why  earnest  thou  here?"  quoth  St.  Peter. 
"Didst  thou  hope  that  in  heaven  thou  wouldst  meet 

her?" 

Burgy  cracked  a  huge  smile, — hesitated  a  while, 
And  remarked:    "Have  you  something  to  eat — er?" 

To  this  question  St.  Peter  replied, 

That,  after  earth's  people  had  died, 

They  had  nothing  to  eat — neither  cabbage  nor  beet, 

But  Burgy  thought  Peter  had  lied. 

The  next  thing  that  Burgy  inquired, 
As  within  heaven's  halls  they  retired — 
"Can  I  get  a  hot  shower  in  Paradise  bower, 
Or  haven't  you  coal  to  be  fired?" 

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"O  come,  now!"  said  Peter,  "you  quit. 

It's  expected  that  you'll  do  your  bit. 

You  must  play  on  your  fiddle,  or  roast  on  a  griddle, 

You  would  crab,  should  your  halo  not  fit." 


TO  THE  CHRISTMAS  SHOPPER 

WHEN  Christmas  shopping's  to  be  done, 
If  the  shopper's  you  or  I, 
Let's  steel  our  heart  to  any  fate 
And  sing  "Sweet  Buy  and  Buy." 


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Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


ARISTOCRACY 

A  FIELD  mouse  ran  from  his  moss-grown  nest 
To  visit  his  house-bred  friend; 
And  he  maintained  that  his  life  was  best, 
With  joys  that  have  no  end. 

i 

But  the  house-bred  cousin,  from  eve  to  morn, 
Rejected  such  views  as  that. 
"I'd  have  you  know,"  said  he  with  scorn, 
"That  I'm  an  aristoc-rat!" 


158 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


THE  THRALLDOM  OF  STYLE 

O  WHAT  a  difference  in  words, 
Though  all  the  same  in  kind! 
To  call  a  form  "undraped"  will  do, 
But  "bare"  is  not  refined. 

And  so,  with  great  propriety, 
We  style  a  figure  "nude" ; 
If  "naked"  were  the  word  we  used, 
We'd  be  considered  rude. 

Like  ev'ry  man,  a  woman  walks 
Upon  her  own  two  legs; 
Unless  he  speaks  of  "limbs,"  instead, 
A  man  her  pardon  begs. 

O  slavish  thralldom  to  the  style! 
When  shall  we  break  its  clutch? 
"A  spade's  a  spade,"  where'er  we  go, 
A  leg's  a  leg,  as  much! 


159 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


W.  J.  BURNS 

O  WILLIAM  J.  BURNS,  the  detective, 

For  whom  there  exists  no  adjective 

That's  half  strong  enough,  or  sufficiently  tough 

To  describe  this  wizard  reflective! 

But  the  strangest  thing  'bout  this  detective, 
Whether  you  take  him  alone  or  collective, 
Is — his  eye's  in  his  head,  when  awake  or  abed, 
Hence  the  certainty  of  his  perspective. 

If  you  doubt  this  assertion  prospective, 

And  think  that  it  needs  a  corrective, 

Just  ask  the  fair  Maudie,  who  surely's  not  gaudy, 

And  she'll  swear  to  its  truth,  irrespective. 


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A  SAD  MIX-UP 

IT  is  one  of  the  tasks  of  the  clergy, 

Just  to  change  the  last  name  of  a  maiden ; 

And  it  often  requires  much  energy, 

As  she  stands  with  her  gifts  richly  laden, 

To  recall  which  is  first,  last  or  middle. 

So  I  hope  that  the  fair  Madeline, 
Whose  first  name  I  carelessly  changed 
And  mistakenly  called  Josephine, 
Will  not  be  very  greatly  estranged 
Over  that  which  at  first  seemed  a  riddle. 

For  her  pardon  I  humbly  would  crave 

For  the  fault  inadvertently  made, 

And  before  I  go  down  to  the  grave 

And  am  there  irrevocably  laid, 

E'en  her  last  name  I'd  change — yes,  to  Biddle. 


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SYNONYMS 

"PRAY  tell  me  what's  a  synonym?" 
Remarked  his  wife  to  Doctor  Jones. 
"Why,  words  that  mean  the  same,  of  course," 
Replied  her  spouse  in  merry  tones. 

"For  instance,  there  is  'evening,' — 

This  word  and  'night'  mean  just  the  same. 

He  called  last  evening,  indeed, 

Means — Niffht  had  fallen  when  he  came." 

"Then  when  I  greet  a  welcome  guest, 
Of  course  I'll  say  Good-night  to  her; 
And  when  she  leaves  me  at  the  door, 
I'll  say,  'Good  evening,'  shall  I,  Sir? 

And  when  a  party  I  attend, 
I  s'pose  you'd  like  to  have  it  said: 
Not  that  an  evening  gown  she  wore, 
But  just  a  night-gown,  dressed  for  bed?" 


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MRS.  CHAWMER 

MRS.  CHAWMER  was  a  widow — thirty,  sweet  and 
fair, 

Who  thus  was  asked  by  Charlie  Barr  to  make  of 
two  a  pair: 

"Your  captain,  Madam,  I  would  be,  to  take  the 
voyage  of  life, 

And  sail  upon  earth's  stormy  seas,  with  you  the 
skipper's  wife." 

"My  captain,  sir,  you'll  never  be,  my  craft  to  navi 
gate, 

But  possibly  I  might  accept  you — for  my  second 
mate" 


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A  PROBLEM  IN  ARITHMETIC 

A  MAID,  a  man,  a  priest, 
All  conversation  ceased ; 
Some  vows,  a  prayer,  a  ring, 
And  then  a  wondrous  thing. 

For  now  these  persons,  two, 
In  all  they  say  and  do, 
Are  still  but  only  one, 
Whate'er  is  said  and  done. 

'Tis  strange  arithmetic, 
Enough  to  make  one  sick, 
And  of  all  sense  bereft — 
To  add  and  have  less  left. 

For  this  would  seem  subtraction, 
Unless  I'm  in  distraction, — 
To  have  two  on  attainder 
And  one  for  the  remainder. 

But  stranger  still  is  true 
After  a  year  or  two, 
For  now  the  two  are  three, 
When  comes  the  first  baby. 

Who  can  the  problem  solve, 
That  from  two  three  evolve — 
And  sometimes  seven  or  eight  ? 
Arithmetic  or  Fate? 

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As  fools  I  ye  condemn 
Who  balk  at  this  problem. 
The  miracle  of  love 
Solves  all  below,  above! 


TO   A   SUFFRAGIST 

IF  a  hen-party's  made  up  of  women, 

Without  any  equivocation, 

And  a  stag-party,  minus  the  trimmin', 

Is  composed  of  men  bent  on  elation, 

Then,  as  sure  as  you're  wet  when  you're  swimmin', 

A  nation  of  men  is  stag-nation. 


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THE   MODERN   MAUD  MULLER 

MAUD  MULLER,  fresh  and  sweet  and  gay, 

Was  raking  up  the  new  mown  hay ; 

Judge  Fellows,  passing  with  his  load, 

Espied  the  maiden  near  the  road. 

"I  prithee,  Maudie,"  quoth  the  Judge, 

"To  take  a  piece  of  this  fine  fudge; 

And,  since  'tis  hot  and  I  am  dry, 

And  fair  exchange's  no  robbery, 

To  let  me  drink  from  thy  tin  pail, 

A  draught  of  water,  beer,  or  ale." 

"With  all  my  heart,"  the  maiden  cried, 
And  low  she  bowed  and  courtesied. 
Refreshed,  the  Judge  returned  the  pail 
Unto  the  blushing,  young  female; 
And  for  reward, — she  stood  so  meek — 
He  pressed  a  kiss  on  her  fair  cheek. 

"O  Maud,"  quoth  he,  "a  sweeter  draught 
From  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed; 
And  to  thy  gift,  though  I'm  no  lad, 
The  giver  I  would  have  thee  add." 

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But  Maud  in  terror  shook  her  head, 
And  from  the  Judge  a  few  steps  fled. 
He,  thinking  he  was  thus  repulsed, 
Ascends  the  hill,  with  grief  convulsed; 
Upon  its  crest  he  turns  around 
And  spies  Maud  Miiller  on  the  ground. 

"O  Maud,"  he  cries,  "recall  your  choice, 
And  make  my  widowed  heart  rejoice." 
"Sure  thing!"  quoth  she,  "Return  to  me, 
For  my  fond  heart  doth  yearn  for  thee ; 
This  year  the  maids,   Progressive  all, 
Would  vote  the  judges  to  recall." 


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THE  PANAMA  CANAL 

"THE  Panama  Canal,  with  Slides." 
So  reads  the  lecture  program; 
But  'pears  to  me  the  Ditch  provides 
The   slides,   without   photogram. 


WHICH  IS  WHICH? 

HERE'S  a  question  for  you,  Billy: 
"Where's  the  Panama  Canal?'"' 
"In  Panama,  of  course,  you  silly, 
Dug  by  Colonel  George  Goethals." 

"There  is  where  you're  wrong,  my  sonny- 
Wrong  as  any  little  gal, 
For  it  may  be  very  funny,  but 
Panama's  in  the  Canal." 


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AN  ACROSTIC 
To  Miss  L.  M. 

LET  all  your  efforts  tend  to  form, 
In  youth's  fair  morn,  a  purpose  high; 
Let  faith  and  virtue  mark  the  goal 
At  which  you  fix  your  eager  eye. 

Maintain  a  calm  and  steadfast  gaze 
Upon  the  highest  peaks  in  view; 
Remember,  He  who  gives  the  prize, 
Rewards  the  valiant  and  the  true. 
Above  all  else  remember  this, — 
Your  work  will  yield  your  highest  bliss. 


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I'M  A  WORD  OF  FIVE  SYLLABLES 

MY  first  forever  will  be  you; 
My  second's  what  you  sometimes  do; 
My  third's  the  first  thing  children  learn; 
My  fourth  your  eye  will  soon  discern; 
My  fifth's  an  article — sure  as  Fate — 
In  books  that  now  are  out  of  date. 

My  first  half  names  my  wife  and  me; 
My  second  half  you  seldom  see; 

My  whole  Miss  D sure  is, 

In  spite  of  her  infirmities. 

Unitarian. 


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PROPINQUITY 

IF  you  add  to  my  first  what  belongs  to  my  second, 

A  staff  and  stay  it  becomes; 

But  if  you  restore  what  is  properly  reckoned, 

When  working  this  style  of  sums, 

As  belonging  to  it  and  not  to  my  first, 

My  second's  the  most  useful  thing  out — 

More  cordially  blessed,  more  forcibly  cursed 

Than  anything  I  know  about. 

Whether  it  causes  a  grimace  or  fathers  a  grin 

Depends  whether  it's  out  or  it's  in. 

But  if  it's  not  you,  and  if  it  be  I, 

That's  inserted  in  front  of  my  third, 

My  last  three  become,  if  you  live  or  you  die, 

Indeed  a  most  terrible  word. 

'Tis  the  offspring  of  Satan,  the  brother  of  sin, 

And  all  the  rest  of  his  kin. 

Now  add  to  my  third  what  belongs  to  my  fourth 

And  you  surely  will  then  have  to  quit, 

For  you  only  have  left  what  scarcely  is  worth 

Enough  to  make  city  of  sit. 

My  whole  is  a  word  that  all  love  to  use 

And  to  have  in  connection  with  you. 

O  would  that  whenever  I  like  and  you  choose, 

Of  you  and  of  me  it  were  true! 

For  then,  if  you  now  only  chance  to  begin  it, 

I'd  certainly,  SURELY  be  "in  it." 

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A  CHALLENGE 

THOUGH  beaten  at  chess  by  the  doughty  Queen 

Bess, 

And  willing  t'acknowledge  defeat, 
I'm  like  Dr.  Gallinger,   ready  to  challenge  her 
To  play  again,  without  deceit. 

Next  time  it  must  surely  be  two  out  of  three, 
Before  I  shall  give  up  the  fight, 
And  I  stipulate  squarely  that  we  shall  play  fairly 
And  this  time  with  plenty  of  light. 


NON  BIS 

'TWAS  dewy  night.     They  rode  beneath 
The  moon  so  calm  and  pale; 
Impelled  by  yearnings  of  his  heart 
He  kissed  her  through  her  veil. 

Next  time  they  took  a  carriage  ride 
Beneath  the  starry  dome, 
She  did  not  wear  the  same  attire — 
She  left  the  veil  at  home. 

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OUR  MAUDIE 

MUCH   the   fastest  female   that  e'er  followed  the 

trail, 

Was  the  famous  old  trotter  called  Maud  S. 
She  could  go  in  two:ten,  and  repeat  it  again; 
In  her  time  she  was  reckoned  a  goddess. 

But  whatever  her  rate,  she  is  now  out  of  date, 
Just  eclipsed  by  her  namesake,  so  gaudy, 
Who  cavorts  thro'  the  rain  in  her  light  aeroplane, 
Our  belov'd  irresistible  Maudie. 

From  St.  Johnsbury  she  hails,  ever  famed  for  its 

gales, 

Her  lost  spirits  and  health  to  recover, 
Let  us  wish  her  God-speed,  on  her  wind-spurning 

steed, 
And  a  hasty  return,  for — we  love  her. 


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A  CHANGE 

YOUR  pardon  I  crave  for  an  error  in  change, 
And  mine  I  will  grant  for  the  change  of  an  error. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  STOCKING 

ERSTWHILE  it  was  the  custom  here 
To  hang  the  Christmas  stocking, 
But  fashions  change  from  year  to  year, 
And  sometimes  are  quite  shocking. 

Not  satisfied  with  pear-shaped  sleeve, — 
At  least,  there  are  such  rumors — 
The  modern  girl,  on  Christmas  eve, 
Must  needs  hang  up  her  bloomers. 


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Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


WHEN  a  girl  is  a  guest,  but  is  urgently  pressed 
Into  service  at  playing  the  organ, 
She  reminds  me,  at  least,  of  the  horse  of  the  East, 
That  noblest  of  breeds,  called  the  Morgan. 

They  always  respond  as  though  they  are  fond 
Of  accomplishing  all  in  their  power. 
No  hill  is  too  steep,  no  valley  too  deep, 
For  courage  and  strength  is  their  dower. 

What  dower  more  meet  for  a  girl  pure  and  sweet 
Than  this  spirit  of  doing  for  others? 
Such  maidens,  I  ween,  are  the  fittest  e'er  seen 
For  that  highest  of  missions — good  mothers. 

Many  thanks  I  would  render,  with  feelings  most 

tender 

For  the  kindness  you  showed  me  on  Sunday. 
I  can  not  repay  you — I  only  can  say  you 
Must  surely  stay  next  time  o'er  Monday. 


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AN  EXCHANGE  OF  PHOTOGRAPHS 

'Tis  often  said,  and  if  so  be, 
A  fair  exchange's  no  robbery, 
I  pray  you  to  exchange  for  mine 
A  face  so  fair  it  seems  divine. 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER 

FAIR  sheets  to  my  daughter  I'm  sending, 
And  with  them  fond  love  I  am  blending, 
In  hopes  that,  their  homeward  way  wending, 
Up  the  vale  of  the  Pemi  ascending, 
They  will  bring  to  my  heart,  now  contending 
'Twixt  grief  and  a  joy  never  ending, 
Some  message  of  heartiness,   lending 
New  cheer  for  the  sad  days  I'm  spending. 


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A  CHESSNUT 

IF  a  lady  and  gentleman  play  any  game, 

However  unskilful  or  clever  he  be, 

Is  it  really  conceivable,  even,  that  he 

Should  allow  himself   thought  better  player  than 

she, 
No  matter  how  "easy"  or  wild  she  became? 

And  especially  if  they  are  playing  at  chess — 
Ancient    game    that    resoundeth    of    bishop    and 

knight — 

One  may  ask  if  it  possibly  could  be  thought  right 
For  a  parson,  not  yet  in  a  bishop's  shoes  quite, 
To  conquer,  to  vanquish  the  haughty  Miss  Bess. 

It  certainly  would  be  against  all  the  rules 
Of  that  chivalry,  which  in  all  hist'ry  is  seen, 
Fairest  fruit  of  the  ages  -now  past  to  have  been. 
Prithee,  how  could  a  knight  break  the  lance  of  his 

queen, 
Without  being  reckoned  the  greatest  of  fools? 

He  would  pawn  his  possessions,  if  he  were  a  king, — 
His  horses,  his  castles,  his  vassals,  his  throne, 
Not  a  crown,  not  a  shilling  or  sixpence  he'd  own. 
Why,  he  even  would  raise  on  his  kingdom  a  loan ; 
Before  he  would  do  so  unknightly  a  thing. 

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And  what  shall  be  said  of  the  lady  who  wins, 

In  conditions  like  those  which  have  now  been  made 

plain? 

I  certainly  think  one  would  call  her  insane, 
If  one  only  had  seen  the  size  of  her  grins. 

And  since  I've  the  priv'lege  of  calling  her  names, 
Even    straight    to    her    face — by    permission    she's 

given — 

I  would  style  her  a  goose,  if  she  hadn't  have  striven 
With  all  of  her  might  to  capture  both  games. 

And  another  thing  which  I  would  certainly  call  her, 
If  she  were  a  member  of  Holderness  School, 
Would  be  to  regard  her  no  end  of  a  fool, 
If  she  didn't  checkmate  all  the  men  that  befall  her. 

She's  the  fairest  chess-player  that  ever  was  seen, 
A  woman  the  sweetest  this  country  has  known, 
O,  happy  the  man  that  shall  call  her  his  own; 
Look  into  her  eyes  and  say — "Thou  art  my  queen." 


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THOUGHTS  CANNOT  BE  BLOTTED 

"BLOT  out  your  thoughts," — how  could  I  thus 

Do  violence  to  my  mind? 

Can  one  control  the  fleecy  clouds, 

Upborne  upon  the  wind, 

That  sweep  across  the  firmament 

And  leave  no  trace  behind? 

No  more  can  one  his  thoughts  control, 
When  wafted  thro'  the  air 
Upon  the  wings  of  memory, 
Which  heeds  nor  joy  nor  care. 
They  will  fly  forth,  they  will  return, 
Like  birds,  aye,  like  a  prayer. 

So  do  not  ask  an  old  time  friend 
To  blot  his  thoughts  of  thee, 
Or  even  to  erase  new  thoughts 
Of  "burnt-work"  on  a  tree; 
For  they  must  e'er  be  free  to  roam 
The  halls  of  memory. 

The  blotter  is  a  dainty  thing, 
And  nothing  could  be  meaner, 
Or  leave  a  mark  upon  my  soul 
By  way  of  insult  keener, 
Than  to  put  unto  its  proper  use 
The  gift  of  sweet  Christina. 

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But  if  I  should  be  "burnt"  myself 
For  doing  things  not  right, 
And  sizzle  thro'  eternity 
In  flames  of  brimstone  bright, 
I'd  have  to  say,  in  solemn  truth 
Your  bark  is  worse  than  your  bite. 


THE  FLEA  AND  THE  FLY 

Alliterative 

A  FLEA  and  a  fly  were  enclosed  in  a  flue, 

And  each  was  remarking:    "Oh,  what  shall  I  do?" 

"Let  us  fly,"  said  the  flea.     "Let  us  flee,"  said  the 

fly;  ' 

So  upward  they  flew  to  the  open  sky. 

But  when  they  had  come  to  the  upper  air, 
It  was  cold  for  their  little  footies  there; 
The  wintry  sky  was  full  of  snow, 
So  off  they  flow  on  a  floating  floe. 

But  when  Spring  came  and  the  air  was  mild, 
The  flea  and  the  fly  were  reconciled; 
The  fly  wanted  milk  and  the  flea  wanted  blood, 
So  the  flea  flayed  the  fly  and  the  fly  fled  the  flood. 

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O  FIDDLE  DEE  DEE 

THERE  was  once  a  divine  known  as  Oliver  Fiddle, 
Who  refused  to  accept  of  a  doctor's  degree; 
And  when  asked  to  explain  such  a  wonderful  riddle, 
Said,  "I'll  not  be  addressed  as  'O  Fiddle,  D.D.'  " 


BORROWED  LENSES 

ONCE  I  had  an  inclination 
To  know  the  power  that  lies 
In  looking  through  the  lenses 
Of  other  people's  eyes. 

So  with  great  anticipation 

I  had  the  lens  adjusted, 

When  I  saw — oh,  horrid  vision! 

Had,  or  had  they  not  been  dusted? 

From  the  sight  so  unexpected 
I  started  back  affrighted, 
And  my  few  and  scattered  senses 
Have  never  since  been  righted. 

What  before  I'd  thought  a  virtue 
Was  a  short  remove  from  sin, 
While  the  veil  that  hid  my  failings 
Grew  wonderfully  thin. 

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With  a  kind  of  fascination, 
I  looked  once,  then  looked  again, 
And  saw  myself  as  I  am  seen 
Through  the  eyes  of  other  men. 

'Twas  with  feelings  quite  peculiar 
That  I  doffed  the  borrowed  lenses, 
Seeing  my  most  righteous  deeds 
Were  unjustified  offences. 

Then  a  sudden  thought  brought  comfort, 
Satisfaction,  you  will  see. 
"Why,  I  look  the  same  to  others, 
As  others  look  to  me." 


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A  BARROW 

ONCE  a  cleric  stole  a  barrow 
Like  a  big  old-fashioned  harrow, 
And  a  lady  sat  upon  it, — 
On  the  barrow,  not  the  harrow, 
Nothing  loath. 

As  it  was  quite  torrid, 
She  said,  "Oh,  this  is  horrid! 
Please  to  wheel  me  now  upon  it." 
"Which?  the  harrow,  or  the  barrow?" 
He  gently  quoth. 

"Oh,  the  difference  pray  don't  mention, 

For  I  have  no  clear  intention." 

And  so  thinking  it  beneath  her, 

She  exclaimed, — I  will  take  ether  (either) 

And  depart. 

Then  they  journeyed  forth  together 
In  the  hot  and  sticky  weather; 
But  he  wheeled  her  on  his  marrow, 
Not  the  barrow,  or  the  harrow, 
From  the  start. 

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THE  SKATER 

O  HERE'S  to  the  lady  who  went  on  the  river 

To  skate  on  the  ice  that  was  thin! 

She  skipped  and  she  tumbled,  but  praise  be!   she 

niver, 
O  no,  sir,  she  niver  fell  in. 

For  she  was  so  buoyant,  so  blithesome  and  airy, 
Ethereal,  sprightly  and  gay, 

That  though  the  ice  crackled,  she  rose  like  a  fairy, 
With  naught  but  a  bump  for  to  pay. 

And  even  the  bump  caused  her  no  inconvenience, 

She  was  so  pneumatic  and  light, 

So  she  rubbed  but  a  moment  the  part  that  had  seen 

dents, 
And  then  skimmed  away  in  her  flight. 


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EXCELSIOR  OR  SOAR 

"EXCELSIOR,  a  motto  wise 
For  every  boy  and  girl 
To  set  before  their  youthful  eyes, 
And  with  their  flag  unfurl." 

Thus  spake  a  comely,  goodly  youth 
Unto  his  father  old. 
"Aye,  sonnie,  you  have  found  the  truth 
That  all  wise  men  have  told." 

"Yes,  father,  we  must  daily  soar, 
If  we  would  reach  the  height 
Attained  by  men  who've  gone  before 
And  left  to  us  their  light." 

The  father  raised  a  straight  birch  rod, 
Concealed  behind  his  back, 
And  smote  the  youth's  fat  buttocks  broad 
A  most  terrific  whack. 

"O  father,  prithee,  wherefore  this?" 
The  youth  cried  o'er  and  o'er. 
"Why,  that,  my  boy,  you'll  scarcely  miss 
That  that's  to  make  you  sore" 

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Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


DOING 

"My  son,  it  boots  not  what  you  feel, 
Nor  little  what  you  think, 
'Tis  doing  that  brings  woe  or  weal 
When  standing  on  the  brink." 

"All  right,  dear  father,  I  will  do 
The  best  that  in  me  lies, 
That  I  be  not  forgot  by  you 
When  journeying  thro'  the  skies." 

Forthwith  he  lit  a  piece  of  fuse 
Under  his  father's  chair; 
It  burst  between  the  old  man's  shoes 
And  whirled  him  through  the  air. 

"Come  here,  you  wretch,"  the  father  cried, 
As  soon  as  he  alighted, 
"I'll  dust  your  jacket,  's  if  you'd  lied, 
Till  you  are  quite  affrighted." 

"O,  no,  dear  father,"  quoth  the  son, 
"You  bade  me  always  do. 
I'm  not  to  blame  for  what  I've  done; 
I's  only  doing  you." 

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I'M  A  BORE 

BILLY  found  his  board  bill 
On  the  bill  board  of  the  mill ; 
Billy,  boarding  with  a  Boer, 
Boarded  up  the  Boer's  door. 

Since  the  bill  was  just  and  true, 
Billy  cried,  "What  shall  I  do?" 
Presently  a  tusked  boar 
Bored  through  the  board  door. 

Soon  as  he  espied  the  bill, 
(Billy  hadn't  paid  a  mill) 
Down  he  charged  upon  the  Boer, 
And  the  Boer  charged  no  more. 


187 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


SMOKING  OR  FUMING,  WHICH? 

"HORATIO  JONES,  why  will  you  smoke?" 
A  cross-grained  wife  kept  saying. 
"It  makes  me  sneeze  and  cough  and  choke, 
Like  some  poor  donkey  braying." 

"My  dear,  a  bargain  I  will  make, 
The  weed  to  cease  consuming. 
If  you,  for  tender  pity's  sake, 
Will  only  stop  your  fuming." 


A  GIFT 

A  GROCER'S  sure  to  come  to  want, 
Before  his  hair  turns  gray, 
For  all  his  goods,  whate'er  the  amount, 
He  always  gives  a  weigh. 


188 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


A  RAILROAD  THOUGHT 

or 
A  THOUGHT  OF  RAILLERY 

ONE  hears, — yes,  surely  one  believes, 
From  certain  widespread  rumors, 
That   this   year's   mutton-legged   sleeves 
Are  only  last  year's  bloomers. 


189 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


APPLES  IN  HISTORY 

OLD  ADAM  ate  an  apple  raw, 
And  brought  about  the  Fall — 

Expulsion  swift  from  Eden  fair, 
Grim  toil,  and  death  for  all. 

And  of  the  seven  labors  which 
By  Hercules  were  wrought, 

Hesperidean  apples  three 

Most  fame  and  honor  brought. 

The  greatest  shots  in  history 
Were  when  brave  William  Tell 

On  his  son's  head  the  apple  cleft, 
When  tyrant  Gessler  fell. 

And  then  old  Isaac  Newton,  too, 
Once  saw  an  apple  fall: 

The  law  of  gravitation  thus 
Became  quite  plain  to  all. 

Yes,  apples  are  responsible 
For  man's  unceasing  strife, 

For  Adam  ate  the  apple,  but 
He  blamed  it  on  his  wife. 


190 


Chips  From  a  Busy  Workshop 


SHIPS  THAT  PASS   IN  THE  NIGHT 

OF  all  the  "ships  that  pass  in  the  night," 
With  varying  winds,  on  different  tacks, 
Those  needing  no  pilot  or  beacon  light 
Are  those  that  go  by  the  name  of — "smacks." 


191 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-20m-7,'61  (Cl437s4)444 


PS 
3545 


W392c     Chips   from  a 
busy  workshop 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    001  247  928    3 


3545 
W392c 


